


The Lion in Hunt

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [4]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Fate & Destiny, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, More angst, Reincarnation, Self-Harm, culture clash, less smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 10:03:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21297662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: “You’ve seen how the stars move for many years,” Thetis told her grieving son. “Orion the hunter comes and goes, and comes back again. One day the constellation of face and figure, mind and spirit that created Hector will come together again. You can find him again.”Achilles looked at her as if she were perhaps growing a bit mad.“Not looking like this, of course,” she added. “Drink this. Drink this and I will let you go back to sleep. When you wake, you will feel better.”
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Greek and Roman Mythology), Achilles/Hector (Troy 2004)
Series: The Lion and the Bull [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513298
Comments: 23
Kudos: 60





	1. Epilogue... and Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I cannot leave these two alone.

“I rarely ask you for favors,” Thetis pointed out to the huge, but barely visible face hovering above her in the early morning sky. Nereus could only be seen when the moisture in the air was dense enough to coalesce, and when the morning sun was just sending its first rays across the land. Then, if Nereus chose to appear—and he rarely chose to—could the outlines of his face and form be perceived by a vigilant watcher, who knew where to direct her eyes.

Happily, a daughter usually knows how to see her father.

“He is desperately unhappy,” she continued. “I had thought it would pass, eventually. Mortals die; he always knew this. He and Hector had many happy years. He’s not young. I thought he would come to look back with fondness, but he sinks deeper as he goes on.”

“Throwing him through time is your solution?” The voice was barely audible, just as the face was barely visible.

“I’ll miss him, of course,” she admitted. “But I’ve missed him all this time he was gone. Maybe if he can find his Hector once more, he’ll bring him back to the island again. I would not be opposed to that,” she mused.

“His Hector will not be the same,” her father warned.

“In some respects he will be. All patterns are repeated, every constellation comes back to live in the same spot in the sky as it did a previous year, a previous hour…”

“But the weather you stand in as you gaze up at them, that changes.”

She shrugged, and toyed with her shell necklace.

“And you believe I know these patterns,” Nereus added. His image faded a bit, and then came back stronger as a particularly strong pink ray of sunshine peeked over the rim of the world and sliced through the dewy morning.

“I know you do,” Thetis said, addressing him with the same equanimity with which she addressed a fisherman, or her son, or anyone.

“Does he wish this?”

“I haven’t asked. I thought I’d ask you first.”

The sky seemed to ripple as the apparition gave a thoughtful nod. “He is my grandson. His flesh is within my purview. I could not do it if he were fully mortal.”

“I’ll infuse him with as much of my essence as I can,” Thetis decided. “I can make him young and strong again.”

“Why not just make him forget?” Nereus asked mildly. “Much easier.”

“No… I like how he has changed. I never change. I think I envy him a bit. But too, I want to see him continue. What is the point of being part god and part human if you cannot embody the best of both?”

Nereus rippled in the sky again. “I can see an incarnation of his prince to the East, but Orion will come and go many a score before he is born, and grown, and ready.”

“That is not long to you and me. But to my son… he’ll walk into the sea and turn to foam before long. I see it. He stares off to the West, in the direction he came back from alone, just like Hector stared off at Troy. But Hector had Achilles to bring him to life again, to love him and go with him on his new adventures. My son has no one now. It’s very bad. He has a long grey beard and looks older than me.”

“That is the natural order—that mortals grow old and die,” her father began, but she lifted a finger and he nodded, knowing already her point. “But he is not entirely mortal, so he must not suffer an entirely mortal fate.”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Talk to him first. Prepare him. Restore him. If he wishes it, tell him to go into the sea tonight at sunset, and face West.”

“You said his Hector was to the East,” Thetis said.

“Yes. But the waterways do not connect our world to his world directly, and I cannot move him over land. He will have to travel a great ways around. Fortunately, he has much time. I’ll take him to when and where he needs to be to find his beloved. But remember what I said. He will not find Hector of Troy again, ever. He may find the man he loves, but it will not be Hector, Prince of Troy.”

Thetis nodded obediently, privately thinking that she’d tell her son whatever she felt he needed to hear in order to have hope again. Her father’s face faded from the sky as full morning broke.


	2. Thetis Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mother always wants her son to be happy.

“Drink this,” she said, offering him the chalice.

Achilles rolled over in the bed, his hair long and gray and tangled. He was rather thin, and his eyes were hooded and dull. “I don’t want to forget.”

“It’s not lethe. It’s something that will restore you to youth and strength and beauty again.”

He turned away disinterestedly. “I don’t need to be young again.”

“You do if you want to regain what you have lost,” she said temptingly.

“It cannot be regained.” He lay in the tangled sheets and buried his face in them, preparing to sink back into sleep. He slept a great deal since he came back.

“That’s what you thought many years ago when Hector fell from the cliff. Do you remember? But I could not stand to see you suffer then, and I cannot stand it now.”

Achilles rolled back over again to face her. He did not look hopeful. “I burned his body myself, mother. I bathed him. I wrapped him up. I put the coins on his eyes. His sons and grandchildren were too grief-stricken to do it with any decorum.”

“And his faithful general tended to him while they wailed like children, I know, you told me.” She said patiently, still holding the chalice over the bed. 

“He died happy.” Achilles finished after a moment. “He had command of a small but growing city in the northern lands where grapes grow. We called it New Ilium. We learned the local language. We trained an army. He took a well-connected bride and fathered children with her. He created a legacy as Aeneas. But all of his days and most of his nights, he was with me. And she knew it.”

“Yes, I’m sure she was very fond of you,” his mother said drily.

He gave a snort of mild amusement, but his eyes were heavy and distant.

“You’ve seen how the stars move for many years,” she told him. “Orion the hunter comes and goes, and comes back again. One day the constellation of face and figure, mind and spirit that created Hector will come together again. You can find him again.”

He looked at her as if she were perhaps growing a bit mad.

“Not looking like this, of course,” she added. “Drink this. Drink this and I will let you go back to sleep. When you awaken… you will feel better.”

It alarmed her no small bit when he finally reached for it and drank it as if he did not care what it did to him. It could have been lethe; it could have been poison. He didn’t even smell it first. Truly, she was right to intervene.

“But I do want to ask you something,” he said quietly, handing back the empty chalice. “You told me when I first joined Odysseus to go to Troy that I would die there, and you would never see me again.”

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Yes, in my dream, your destiny was that you would kill a Prince of Troy, and his brother would later kill you. But you confounded your destiny when you did not kill Hector. I suppose you could say that love changed your fate.”

He stared down at the rumpled sheets of the bed.

“Yet you still became a legend,” she reminded him, in hopes of cheering him.

By the sardonic look he gave her, she could see he was dissatisfied with his legend. “That nonsense about my heel,” he grumbled.

She sighed. “Yes, well, that is a silly story indeed. If I’d dipped you in a magical river, I’d have held you under by the hair.”

She managed to wring a smirk from him with that. “Yes, you would have.”

Thetis reached out and gave his grey locks a pet. “Go back to sleep. When you wake, you will feel better.”

He rolled over onto his stomach and curled up, eyes closing wearily. His mother regarded him, surprised to feel an unaccustomed pang of emotion in her chest. A dying lion is a pitiful sight. She would rather miss him, knowing he was strong and happy, then have him here in this wasted form.

***

When Achilles awakened, he was surprised to find that he did feel better, physically at least. The aches and stiffness he’d grown accustomed to were not in evidence, and he rolled out of the bed and stretched himself. 

He was also surprised to find that he had a bit of an appetite, for the first time since that hideous morning nearly a year ago, when he’d awakened to find that his prince, no, his king… had quietly died in the night. A peaceful death, unexpected, it was. Hector—King Aeneas as they knew him then—complained of a pain in his chest and went to bed early, much as his father had done. But Priam had woken a changed, disabled man. Hector had not awoken. 

Achilles had been the one to comb his gray curls back from his white, still face, and make him presentable for viewing. He was still handsome. Not truly old yet, he should have had, oh, a score more of years. His grandsons were still lanky youth. His granddaughter was just coming into her beauty.

The warrior rubbed his chest, feeling the pain within at these thoughts. Then he looked down at his naked self and realized: something was different. He held his hands out before him and stared at them. His fingers were straight and the skin was smooth. His thighs were thick and golden.

He reached up to feel his hair; it was soft and fine again, not wiry as it had grown in later years. He pulled a strand forward to inspect it. Yellow again. 

He wrapped a cloth around him and left his room, calling for his mother like an angry youth. What was the point of this, truly?!

***

“Now, take the shell between your fingers. No, like this.” Thetis directed. “Close your eyes and think of gold.”

Achilles scowled, pinching the shell and feeling ridiculous. 

“You’re doing fine,” she said, watching the shell. “Slow, but … I suppose when I first started… well, no, it was easy for me.” 

He opened his eyes and gave her a look. “No, no, close your eyes and keep concentrating. You’ll need gold wherever you go.”

“What if I can’t find shells?”

“Small pebbles will do, but just small ones. You want to have a steady supply of gold without attracting undue attention. Keep concentrating.”

Finally, after an interval that seemed inordinately long, she bade him to open his eyes. “Well.” He said, staring at the gold shell in his hand.

“Yes. This and your own fighting skills should be enough to sustain you.”

“How did you give me this power?” He asked suspiciously.

“Oh, you were born with it,” she assured him calmly, looking at the shell with satisfaction.

“I was not!”

“Certainly you were.”

“You never told me!”

She shrugged. “You never needed it. We were already wealthy.”

He lowered his arm and just gazed at her for a moment. Finally, he demanded, “What else do I not know??”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You see this little shell? That represents what you know. You see this island? That represents what you do not know.”

Exasperated, he waited for her to clarify, but she seemed to lose interest in the topic, as she often did. Achilles sighed and accepted it.

“And the sea-god says he can take me to Hector?”

“He can take you to the general time and place. You will have to hunt for him, but surely a man like Hector will be in high position and easy to find,” that was Thetis’ honest opinion.

“Will he know me?” Achilles asked with an uncertainty that was not common with him.

“He might!” That was _not_ Thetis’ honest opinion, but she was afraid of him losing his courage. She was certain that once Achilles had found his Hector again, the thrill of the chase would sweep him up with its excitement, and he would be vigorous and alert again. For Achilles, to be overcoming a challenge was happiness. At least, it always had been. Surely he hadn’t changed so much that this was not still true.

When sunset came, she led him down to the beach. “I doubt you can take anything with you,” she said, and then suddenly, she embraced him. It might be many, many years before she saw him again. But she would know he was not in pain. “Face West,” she finally said, stepping away from him.

Clearly doubting her, Achilles nevertheless walked into the sea, facing the red glow left behind by the sun. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a channel of water seemed to grow quiet amid the waves, a path of stillness that contrasted in its smooth surface to the choppy peaks around it. 

Achilles stared at it, and his heart seemed to beat faster in his chest with sudden alertness. Could the path lead to Hector? He looked back at his mother, who had backed carefully away from the water’s edge. She lifted a hand in farewell, and nodded to him. 

Achilles leaned into the water as if in a trance, sinking to his chest, and then to his chin. Suddenly, invisible hands seemed to pull him under and forward almost before he had a chance to take a breath. The water was unnaturally cold, and the shock of it made him wish to struggle up out of it, but he could not. He was under, deep and cold, dark and getting darker. And then his awareness faded until he only felt cold water rushing past his body so quickly it pummeled him. Then even that was gone.


	3. The River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles awakens, a stranger in a strange land. Now...where is Hector?

The young girl went with her sisters to the river to wash the clothes in the morning, before the day grew hot, but it was not long before she skipped off, leaving the older ones to gossip and wash. They did not complain. She was too young to keep secrets well, and girls of their age always have secrets.

Moving along the banks of the river, she picked about for pretty stones, or maybe a bit of wood worn smooth. What she found was a naked man, blond and muscular, and apparently asleep in the roots of a tree that was half in the water, and half out. 

She could see at once that he was not dead. The child had seen dead bodies in the river. They were white. He was gold, and when she tapped on his shoulder, he jerked awake and looked around with eyes that were animal-wild and brilliant blue.

“You have no clothes. Were you robbed?” She asked.

He focused on her, blinking in confusion. She repeated her question but he merely stared as if he could not understand her. He must have traveled here from Somewhere Else, she decided. She often heard other languages spoken where her mother sold cloth in the market.

She sat down near him, but not too near. She was young, but old enough to understand that naked men and young girls are not always a good combination. He did not seem disposed to interfere with her, however. 

The man pulled himself out of the roots of the tree and crawled up onto the shore, turning to sit heavily. His movements were uncoordinated, as if he had drunk too much wine the night before. She supposed he probably had. He sat for a moment, his eyes scanning the river, the banks, the people along the tree-lined road on the other side of the river that led to the markets of Osroene.

Then his eyes turned to the bridge that led across the river, beyond where a score of women and girls were washing clothes. 

Finally, he turned to look at the wide-eyed, skinny girl with black curly hair that regarded him with intense curiosity. She was clearly ready to level a barrage of questions at him, but it was equally evident that whatever language or dialect she spoke was not one Achilles had mastered. 

However, there was one language everyone understood. He turned and raked his fingers through the sandy gravel at his side and took up a tiny pebble. After a moment, he held it out to her and then gestured to his own nakedness.

She took the gold reverently in her hand and her dark eyes widened even more. She babbled something in her incomprehensible tongue, and then held up her hand in the universal _wait here._

Achilles watched her bound away like a baby rabbit. He hoped she brought sandals and food as well.

By the time the sun was high and hot in the sky, Achilles was pleased to find himself in a moderately decent tunic of foreign cut. It did not drape, but was smooth and rather higher over the chest than the styles he had left behind. It hung down slightly longer as well. Yet for all it covered more of him, the material was very light and loose. 

She’d procured a blue cloak for him as well, one with rather nice stitching along the edges. It wasn’t the cloak of a poor man, he decided, and took up another small pebble, pinched it gold, and slipped it to her in thanks. She gazed up at him as if he were a king.

Her family, a mother with several children and no father in sight, fed him well, but their conversation was limited to hand gestures. It was with some delicacy he made it clear to the matron that the child had not procured small clothes to go under the tunic, and there was laughter at the table when he finally got his point across. He could have gotten it across by more direct means, but he was a man in a room of young girls, and forbore to be too explicit.

The next task was to find weapons. That was very easy to communicate. When Achilles was finally ready to cross the bridge, he was well-dressed, well-fed, well-armed, had the local coins in a leather purse, and had a new family who adored the handsome blond foreigner who was so liberal with his supply of little gold pebbles.

More importantly, he had found, at length, a fisherman who seemed to speak a few words in nearly every dialect found at the water’s edge from the islands of Greece to the shores of Anatolia.

From him, Achilles learned the following: He was in an Eastern region called Osroene, whose capital, a good two-days travel away, was Edessa. Its king was Abgar, but he was under house arrest by soldiers of a far-away king named Caracalla, who wished—well, he needed to hear no more. The only thing that might surprise one, he mused, was how little things changed.

He asked the fisherman if he knew of Troy, Agamemnon, and Odysseus, and Hector and Achilles, but the names provoked no reaction at all. But he had no doubt that the symmetry of the situation was no accident. His immediate plan of action was to travel to Edessa, infiltrate the palace, and see this Abgar. Was that his Hector? Or the father of his Hector? The constellation had come around again, and perhaps this time… perhaps this time he could save his prince, save his city, keep him in happiness. 

He waited until the worst heat of the day had passed, and then, as the sun went behind the trees, Achilles crossed the bridge over the river—very wide river it was, and one had to pay a toll. In the markets of Osroene he bought a horse, and deciding it was cooler to travel by night, set off for Edessa immediately. He had no need of sleep. He suspected that he had slept in the ocean for many years, and besides, if Abgar was his Hector, he had no time to lose.


	4. The Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles has found the palace of the captured Abgar. Now, to get in.

The walls of Edessa were… not exactly like the walls of Troy, but close enough, Achilles decided, dismounting from his horse. The landscape around it was somewhat more verdant. The soldiers at the gate had the air of guarding already conquered territory, and seemed to regard the populace with some contempt, but without any immediate threat of violence. 

Unlike Agamemnon, who had destroyed Troy to set an example, this Caracalla seemed more likely to simply replace the king with one of his choosing, exact tribute, and allow the city to continue to function. Achilles had to admit; this was an improvement.

And unlike at the gates of Troy, Achilles did not have to figure out a way in; the gates were open. The guards eyed him narrowly as he entered: he was obviously a foreign fighter, and armed, but they did not seem to register him as a definite threat. Once within, he simply followed the main road and whenever it met with a wider, more well-maintained road, he took it. It was a bustling, thriving city, this Edessa. The weather was dry and the roads a bit dusty, but the citizenry seemed to be going about its business without undue anxiety.

Stopping a few times to ask, “King Abgar?” and follow the pointed finger, Achilles eventually made his way to the palace. The entire process was going remarkably smoothly, until he got into the courtyard. His clothing and the clear value of his weapons and mount got him past the guards at the entrance, but once he penetrated beyond the public areas and began making inquiries, it was not long before he was attracting the attention of guards and officials. They gathered about him and made it clear that saying patiently “Abgar” and offering gold would not get him into the inner sanctum of the imprisoned king.

Even as he contemplated simply drawing his sword and slicing his way through, an entourage entering the shade of the hall behind him drew the guards’ attention from him. Achilles turned to see who was so important that they might cross the elaborately tiled mosaic floor to pass between the columns, and into the inner courtyard.

It was a man in his middle age, large, very well dressed in long robes and cape, with jewels embedded in a long, heavy necklace. He was followed by several figures so completely draped and cowled in drab cloth, one could not see their faces. Their heads were bowed, and they moved in silence. Priests, they must be, but Achilles had never seen priests of this sort. Priests in his day had worn fine cloth, with decorative stitching, and were clearly of high birth. These sorts seemed almost as if they embraced poverty and beggary, although the man who led them certainly did not.

The leader stopped to confront the guards who blocked his way, and Achilles watched with interest as he argued and pontificated, waving his long hands, gesturing to the ceiling, to the floor, all around them, to their swords, to his silent, cowled priests, to the inner rooms behind the guards. The warrior wished he could understand the language, for it seemed that the guards were relenting. They sighed, they shifted from foot to foot, they looked at one another. He was obviously not a stranger to them.

Finally, the guards seemed to decide that if they searched the priests for weapons and found none, they might allow them a short, escorted, supervised visit to the captured King Abgar. 

The guard whose uniform indicated highest rank pointed the priest to a strange device sitting on a table where the guards seemed to keep their belongings. It had a funnel braced between wooden sticks that was poised over a deep bowl. The guard took a chalice and dipped it into the nearby fountain, and then poured it into the funnel. Immediately, single drops of water began to drip steadily from the tip of the funnel. He pointed to it, and said something emphatically. _This is how much time you have with King Abgar, _Achilles guessed. 

The priest nodded energetically, and followed by his ghostly cowled acolytes, passed between the columns. Escorted by two armed guards, they disappeared into the interior of the palace, with Achilles staring after them longingly.

If nothing else, he would watch which way they went … to the right, very well. Past the courtyard fountain, into the colonnade, to the right. That was where, very likely, his Hector awaited rescue. 

Deciding that reconnaissance was the first order of the day, Achilles made himself comfortable on a ledge in an innocuous section of the public courtyard, and watched the comings and goings of the palace. Citizens of obvious wealth and birth seemed to walk quite freely around, and business moved forth without much distress manifested. It was not exactly a city under siege. It was more… a city with two kings in dispute about who would collect the taxes. 

After a while, the priest with his strange, cowled followers exited the palace, and Achilles watched alertly as they made their way in single file out of the courtyard. 

On impulse, he got up and trailed them. They left the compound entirely and moved up the dusty road a distance to a large stone building that… had the aura of a temple. But instead of a deity displayed, like Apollo, it bore a symbol that looked rather like a downward pointing sword with an abnormally large hilt. Drawing closer, he saw that it was merely two pieces of wood, the long one vertical, and the short one horizontal across it, nearer the top than the bottom.

Enough of this, he needed someone who spoke his language and understood the situation. Achilles retrieved his mount, rode to the nearest marketplace, and simply prowled around, asking random questions until he came across an alert youth on the verge of manhood who seemed rather like the type who would sneak his hand into your purse while smiling brightly at your face. But he responded to Achilles’ questions with at least a look of comprehension and seemed to have some broken grasp of Greek.

Thus began a conversation that tested his patience but at least brought some clarity.

-Will Caracalla kill Abgar?  
-_No, Ca’calla no kill Abgar today._  
-Kill tomorrow?  
-_Maybe no, maybe take to Rome_  
-Where is Rome?  
-_Far, far. West. _  
-Soldiers here of Rome?  
-_Oh yes. Assholes._  
-Why take Abgar?  
-_Priests Ca’calla no like_  
-What gods, these priests?  
-_Jesu god._  
-Zeus?  
-_Who?_  
-Zeus.  
-_No, Jesu god _(and here he spread his arms wide and then let his head fall to the side. Achilles had no idea what this meant, so he moved on.)  
-Priests see Abgar every day?  
-_Oh yes, every day. Late every day._

Achilles nodded and gave the young fellow a gold pebble. Then he went looking for a safe place to board himself and his horse. Tomorrow he intended to be with those priests when they went in to see Abgar.


	5. Brother Achilles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One does what one must do to get into the palace.

The monk who worked in the garden, Lucien, was the smallest of the group, a thin, balding fellow whose eyesight was not sharp, and whose temper was most mild. He was pottering around in the shade near the wall, his cowl pushed back off his head, checking on the vegetables, when he realized he was not alone. He turned and his eyes widened at the apparition of a muscular blond warrior in a fine cloak and tunic, and a very long sword, which was pointed at the startled monk’s throat. He had apparently come over the wall.

Lucien swallowed and froze. The warrior pointed to his robes and spoke in a language that was utterly foreign, but the message seemed to be that the warrior wanted his robe. As his order was one of silence, non-violence, and cooperation, Lucien was in no danger of being a difficulty to Achilles. Trembling, he shed the robes and stood quivering in a long, white under robe beneath which he was apparently naked.

Achilles whipped off his own cloak in equal silence and wrapped it around the fragile fellow. Then he went over it with rope, binding him up neatly and then hoisting the terrified monk to carry him over to the small shed where the gardening tools were kept. 

“Shh…” Achilles told him, with a finger to the lips. “Or…” he lifted the sword threateningly and the monk’s eyes got so wide they seemed in danger of falling right out. Achilles shut the door on him and sheathed his sword. He pulled the robes over his own clothing, and pulled the cowl up and over his face. Then, hunching and bowing his head, and trying to pull his muscular arms as tight to his frame as he could, Achilles made his way into the back of the temple to join his new brethren.

He was fortunate, Achilles decided, that this order of priests apparently did not speak, except for their leader, who apparently spoke quite a bit. Achilles stood in the stone sanctuary near the front of the edifice with about a dozen similarly attired figures and listened as the berobed fellow with the jeweled necklace addressed them with an air of urgency and distress. He spoke to his followers as he had spoken to the guards the previous day, gesturing up and down, spreading his hands and then clasping them again.

Achilles let his gaze wander about this strange temple. At one end was an altar, that was clear, but the figure behind it was no god he recognized. He returned his attention to the speaker.

The topic seemed to be something to do with Abgar—the name featured several times amid the incomprehensible verbiage—and several scrolls that the priest gestured to often. They were piled on a table, and it seemed to Achilles that there were more of these scrolls, which they must get from Abgar before Ca’calla… did something. Achilles watched as the priest pointed to several of the other monks and indicated that scrolls could be hid under robes.

So it seemed that their regular visits to the captured king were not precursors to a rescue mission, nor spiritual guidance, but a bid to rescue certain scrolls, some of which had already been obtained. Well, Achilles was not terribly concerned with it, but he paid strict attention. If Abgar was his Hector, he might want these scrolls saved. They might make a difference in his situation. They might be instructions to allies to come help him fight off the aggressor, although Achilles was quickly reverting to his mindset when Hector and Troy were in danger. Save Hector; to Hades with the city.

By the time they seemed ready to make their trek from the temple to the palace, Achilles was vibrating with impatience. He had to see this Abgar before he could make any definitive plan. He had little doubt, but… oh, how he wanted to see that face again. Those troubled dark eyes, that curly hair, that smile, that neck, those shoulders. Those ears. He smiled a bit. It had been a very long time. And Hector’s scent. Oh, how he missed that scent.

Achilles fell into line behind the five monks who seemed to have volunteered by silent signal for this undoubtedly dangerous project, and they left the temple and moved quietly down the dirt road. The citizens around them gave them passing glances, and from them, Achilles could perceive that they were not without controversy in the city. Some people nodded cordially to them. Others eyed them with suspicion, and a few looked angrily at them.

They entered the courtyard, and Achilles could see that the situation had already progressed. He had not come one moment too soon. The number of guards had tripled, and a litter mounted on two long poles was being carried into the inner sanctum. It had the look of comfort, but the window openings were much smaller than normal, and there were chains wrapped around the outside of it. Clearly, once a man was inside, he would not be leaving it again until he was allowed to.

His bright-eyed marketplace pick-pocket was apparently an accurate source of intelligence: Abgar was being removed from Edessa today, for transport to Rome, and very possibly a lifetime of captivity, which lifetime would be only as long as this Ca’calla decreed. 

Under his robe, Achilles slipped his arm from the sleeve and fingered the hilt of his sword longingly. Should he try to free his king here and now, or follow as a monk and waylay them later?

The priest, who was now addressed by the guard by name—Bardaisan, it sounded like—was frantically arguing for one last visit, and the guards were impatient but grudgingly respectful. Bardaisan gesticulated, and they shook their heads. He pointed up and down, and they shrugged. He pointed to the water-clock, and they considered. 

Finally they waved them in, and Achilles waited tensely to be searched, but the guards seemed more concerned with speed than anything else, and escorted them in with exhortations that suggested time was of more import than security.

His heart beating, Achilles bowed under his cowl and followed the others past the fountain, down the colonnade to the right, into a finely situated room rich with mosaics and drapery, where the monks immediately scattered and began gathering up scrolls that had been hidden behind said drapery. 

Bardaisan himself went straight to a man who stood half-hidden in a portico, his hands rubbing his face tensely, and embraced him. It seemed that they were saying farewell, and it seemed that this was Abgar.

Achilles made straight for the robed figure, pushing his cowl away from his face. The two men turned to him, startled, and for a moment, each of the three seemed to stare at the other two in consternation. Abgar’s darting eyes seemed to ask of Bardaisan, _Who is this?_ Bardaisan’s stare seemed to ask of Achilles, _Who are you?_ And Achilles’ face as he stared affronted at Abgar, most clearly said, _This is not Hector!_


	6. And So

The king was a thin fellow with a hawk nose and a long, mournful face, and was most un-Hector-like. Achilles stood staring at him unhappily for a moment, and then narrowed his eyes. Why was he not Hector?! The parallels to the past were too clear to be accidental. History repeats itself, patterns repeat themselves, that was what his mother had said. 

The king drew back from this blond stranger nervously, apparently wondering if his arrest was about to be rudely interrupted by his assassination.

At this tense moment, two soldiers burst in with weapons drawn, and seemed intent upon seizing Abgar, and preventing the monks’ seizure of the scrolls. Everyone was suddenly shouting, although of course the words had no meaning to Achilles, and the Greek drew his sword, sliced the encumbering robes off, and prepared to fight his way out of the situation. This Abgar was of no concern to him. 

Bardaisan shouted at the monks, apparently to hurry them, and the soldiers shouted at the monks, apparently to stop them. The monks themselves turned their hooded heads back and forth between the armed guards and their leader. When one of the guards brandished his sword threateningly at the nearest monk, all the others dropped the scrolls obediently. 

The monk at sword point, however—a tall fellow who clutched his treasures to him stubbornly—turned his shoulders toward the threat, and lowered his head like a bull, disregarding the sword at his chest.

Achilles felt his entire insides clench, a light seemed to explode in his head, and something like a sob caught in his throat. 

He stared at the figure in disbelief. Even beneath the cowl and loose robes, he suddenly recognized the sloping, full shoulders, the height, the body language. The monk was holding those scrolls like he wanted nothing more than to bleed out his life’s blood on them, and from deep inside the cowl, Achilles could almost see the stern stare fearlessly pinned on the threatening soldier.

Leaping into action, Achilles came between the monk and the soldier, his sword batting away the guard’s with a force that sent it across the room. Startled, both guards retreated, calling for back-up. Clearly, Caracalla had not sent his best to this outpost.

Achilles turned, wanting to snatch off the hood and see his Hector’s face, but the monks immediately returned to scooping up scrolls and at Bardaisan’s order, fled the chamber with their arms full, leaving Abgar—who seemed not to expect to be saved—and darting through the palace to the outer courtyard with robes fluttering.

Confused, but determined, Achilles followed them, ready to spear anyone who attempted to interfere with the tall monk whose arms were full, but the soldiers seemed more intent on rushing past them to ensure that none of them had scooped up the king. 

They ran through the astonished onlookers, many of whom had to step lively to avoid being plowed down by charging monks with their arms full of scrolls, and were soon racing up the dusty street and back into the temple, Achilles among them. 

When they reached their strange stone temple, they charged inside, where Bardaisan bolted the door behind them with a heavy bar, and the monks dumped their scrolls to the floor, panting, but still oddly silent.

Achilles sheathed his sword and went straight to the tall, cowled figure. Without ceremony, he pushed the hood from his head and drank in the sight. It was Hector without a doubt, identical to the long, deep-set, worried eyes, the full lower lip with that slight crease in the center of it, the close beard, the curls… Achilles held him by the robes for a moment, and then placed his hands on his Hector’s neck to just hold him still and stare at him.

“Hector,” he whispered in wonder, his eyes moving to take in every plane of that beloved face; the narrow nose, the wide cheekbones... “Hector!”

The monk blinked at him in surprise and confusion, just exactly as his Hector would have done, and then glowered, backed away, and pulled his hood up over him again. Tugging it forward over his face, he turned away from the staring warrior. But not without one last suspicious, mortified look. Then he bent, scooped up several scrolls, and picked through them as if looking for certain ones. Finding them, he retreated with them, his steps as even and firm as ever Hector’s were. He went down a hallway, glanced back at Achilles one more time, watchfully, and then disappeared through a doorway.

Achilles remained in the sanctuary, head spinning, and the others regarding him much as cats would look at a large, dangerous swan, that is to say, what is it, and what do we do with it?

Silence reigned. Even Bardaisan seemed too torn between sorting scrolls and trying to figure out who this warrior-knight was, and why he had helped them, to make any speeches. 

Achilles glanced back at the doorway through which his Hector had retreated. He was too stunned to follow him, and he took a few uneven steps to a simple wooden table with benches on either side, and sat down, letting his heart rate return to normal.

The monks looked at one another and then seemed to decide that whatever brought him here, they had scrolls to sort, and turned to their tasks. Achilles watched them, hand thoughtfully over his mouth. How had his Hector come to this??

After a while, he noticed that it was cool in this odd, dark temple, and he remembered that his cloak was wrapped around the monk he’d tied up in the woodshed. Well, that might be something to address, he thought, and went to free the gardening monk and retrieve his cloak.

When he wrenched open the door of the shed, the skinny monk blinked at the light and quailed to see his captor returning. Achilles pulled his knife from his belt and cut the ropes, pulling his cloak off of the fellow and draping it over his own shoulders again. Then he held the door open most courteously for the monk, and gestured that he was free to exit.

The monk slid past him cautiously, eyeing him all the while. Perhaps it was time to start communicating. He clapped his hand on the thin shoulder, causing the poor monk to jump.

“Achilles,” he introduced himself, and waited expectantly.

The monk stared at him, wide-eyed.

With an impatient sigh, the warrior pointed in the general direction of the palace. “Abgar.” He pointed toward the interior of the temple. “Bardaisan.” He pointed to his own chest. “Achilles.” Then he pointed to the monk and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

Apologetically, the monk put his finger to his own lips to indicate that he was not to speak.

Unapologetically, Achilles drew his knife again and grabbed the fellow’s hand, indicating that he would cut off one finger at a time—

“Lucien!” The monk whispered immediately, casting a nervous glance toward the temple.

_Good enough._ Achilles gestured Lucien toward the temple, and they returned together. Lucien immediately darted down the same hallway that Hector had, and disappeared into another door.

Fighting the urge to charge through the doorway through which Hector had vanished, Achilles rejoined the monks sorting through the scrolls. He needed to know more about this world he found himself in. Hector had not been floating in stasis, waiting for Achilles to come to him again. He was immersed in this life, whatever it was, and the warrior had best learn his way in Hector’s new world. 

He looked about the sanctuary at the monks picking through the scrolls. There were fewer of them now. They seemed each to be in charge of certain ones, and when they found them, they cradled their treasures reverently to their chests and retreated from the central hall. 

What was so important about these scrolls, he wondered, and picked one up. He unrolled it, but could make nothing of the markings. Bardaisan approached him, gesturing to it, and speaking as if giving a brief explanation. Achilles wrinkled his brow and cast him a side-eye. 

“Do you speak Greek?” He asked, without much hope.

Bardaisan replied with nothing he could comprehend.

Achilles tried the smatterings of linguas and patois he’d picked up over the years, and finally, as a last resort, the court language of the city he’d shared with Hector as King Aeneas. Immediately, Bardaisan’s brows lifted appreciatively.

“Ah is so pure Latin!” He replied in a heavily accented version of the same.

The warrior literally felt the muscles relax in his shoulders. How this fellow knew the local language of that far away court, he did not know, but it didn’t matter.

“Who is tall priest?” Achilles asked immediately, pointing toward the door where Hector had vanished. He was relieved to finally be able to communicate, and wasted no more time getting to the point.

“Philip? You are come for help Philip? Philip good monk, very brave, many scrolls write Latin for save my work praise Jesu we together help sad Abgar go today Rome prisoner soldiers burn many scrolls but Philip save much copy now for future work of God all stars align for show Jesu return—“ He seemed ready to speak indefinitely.

“Right.” Achilles cut him off and handed the scroll back to him.

“You are angel?” Bardaisan asked.

Achilles had no idea what an angel was, but he nodded absently. It hardly mattered. Then he turned and swept down the corridor to the door Hector had disappeared through and pushed it open. 

He found himself in a rather small room with windows too tiny and high to escape through. To his right was a small cot, with a dresser at the end of it. Directly in front of him was a high desk covered with scrolls and candles. Sitting on a stool, hunched over the desk, carefully copying a scroll onto another, his cowl pushed back onto his shoulders, was Hector.


	7. Brother Philip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will get confusing, but throughout, I try to refer to Hector as _Hector_ when the thought seems to originate from Achilles, or represents Achilles' point of view, and as _Philip_ when it's more from HIS point of view.

The monk straightened when he heard someone enter his cell. A monk’s cell was his sanctuary, and yet he must remember that it does not belong to him. He must not be territorial of this space; it was loaned to him only. Nevertheless, it was not the practice of the monks of the order of the Valentinians to encroach upon one another in their cells. Such visits might give rise to inappropriate situations, or speculations. A monk avoids such things.

He turned to see the blond warrior who had appeared from nowhere in the king’s quarters and helped them escape with many more of the scrolls of Bardaisan. For that, the monk was grateful. 

Then the apparition had pulled off the monk’s cowl, exposing him in the sanctuary to the gazes of others, and touched his neck, and got very close to him, and for that, the monk was rather startled, and offended. But one must not be ungrateful.

Perhaps the warrior was sent by Jesu to help them. Perhaps the warrior had a message for him.

He lowered his eyes and pulled his cowl up automatically, but the warrior came forward quickly, and with his hand prevented it. The tips of his fingers lingered on the monk’s neck, which was a shocking feeling for one who had committed himself to avoid human touch. He leaned away nervously.

“Hector,” the warrior breathed, and it seemed as if he were sad.

The monk risked raising his eyes to the other, taking in quickly the long sweeping yellow hair and piercing blue of the eyes, the clean jaw and lean, beardless cheeks. He looked very much like an angel, the sort of angel that was highly dangerous and held a flaming sword, and struck dead unbelievers… and disobedient monks. 

Swallowing, he made a gesture toward the scrolls, to show that he was working, that he was not wasting the time that Providence had given him, that he was willing that his work be inspected by this warlike angel. He didn’t know what command _hektor _was, but he was willing to follow it once he learned.

The warrior glanced at the scrolls dismissively and turned his eyes back to the monk, only to blink and return unexpectedly to the writing. He leaned over, his blond hair falling forward, his powerful leg coming into contact with the monk’s as he pressed closer. The heat of that leg emanated right through the monk’s rough, drab robe, through the white cotton under layer, and seared into his skin. He was afraid to move.

The blue gaze darted back and forth between the two scrolls and then he straightened again. “You translate?” He said in the Holy Tongue. _He might indeed be an angel, _the monk thought. He nodded.

“Bardaisan calls you Philip?” The strange creature asked.

The monk nodded.

“My name for you is Hector.”

_Very well,_ the monk thought. He would answer to whatever he was called to by his Order.

“Can you speak?” The angel asked.

The monk was torn. He’d embraced the vow of silence with complete commitment, but if this was an angel, surely he should speak if necessary. Finally he nodded.

To his surprise, the angel grinned, a beautiful, boyish grin, lifted his brows mockingly, and then nodded back at him as if… he might be laughing at his answer.

The monk was a bit offended, and his lowered brows and more direct, less modest stare should have made it clear, but to his chagrin, the angel threw his head back and laughed as joyously as if he had not done so in eons. His neck was long and smooth, and his hand came up again to rest on the monk’s shoulder, the heat of his hand burning through the cloth to make a slight shudder of excitement go through the monk’s chest. He found that his heart was thumping uncomfortably as he looked at the full lower lip and piercing blue eyes.

“Philip,” the voice at the door drew their attention from one another. They turned to see Bardaisan hovering, one long hand nervously fingering the heavy, jeweled necklace he wore. The monk slid from his stool and went to Bardaisan, kneeling for his blessing.

Bardaisan spread his hands over his acolyte and murmured a prayer, and then bade him to rise. “My son, I must go. With Agbar taken, and this day’s events, it is not safe in Edessa for me. I retreat to Aram, where I have family.”

Philip’s gaze seem to plead with him. 

“I would ask you to come,” Bardaisan seemed suddenly intent upon not seeing the look in his acolyte’s dark eyes, “but I am sure you would prefer to stay here and translate the scrolls. But will you take care? You may speak to tell them I have gone.”

The monk bowed his head in submission. Achilles watched with narrowed eyes.

“Perhaps they will leave you in peace if you all stay within doors for a few weeks. Let the new king be crowned, make no public appearances. If they ask, your Order only cares for the sick and poor. I was but a visitor to the king. We removed the scrolls in order not to cause offence to the new king, you may tell them that.”

The monk lifted his head again, a bit shocked.

Bardaisan spoke quickly, “It’s not entirely untrue: I would rather you and the scrolls survive in secret for now than go up in a blaze of futility. Perhaps the new king will eventually be open to The Word. And now, you have an angel to protect you.”

They both turned to see the blond angel glowering at Bardaisan as though he did not like the man standing so close to his monk.

“It seems he has chosen you. There must be some purpose reserved for you, my Philip. Stay here and keep safe. Here—” he handed the monk an iron key, “—you may store the translations in my rooms as you complete them.”

Now Bardaisan switched to the Holy Tongue, and addressed Achilles. “I leave now. Are you stay guard my work, my followers?”

Achilles lifted a brow, feeling that this fellow was assuming rather a lot. “I guard him.” He said flatly, pointing at Philip, who bowed his head again uncomfortably. He had no idea why this creature had appeared for him, but if it was the will of Jesu, he would be passive.

Bardaisan accepted this with a bit of perplexity, but felt sure there were cosmic reasons in play. He nodded graciously. “I must find passage from Edessa.”

Achilles tipped his head thoughtfully. Yes, he’d like this Bardaisan gone. Seeing his Hector kneel before this bejeweled chatterbox had made his stomach lurch. 

“You may have my horse. Come, get your things and walk with me,” Achilles stated, and followed the man out of the monk’s cell. He glanced back to see his prince lower his eyes, lift the cowl up over his curls, and pull it forward to shadow his face. 

Achilles followed Bardaisan through the abbey to his suite of rooms in the back, and listened without comment as the fellow chattered about his work, and the stars, and Jesu, and some land called India. He didn’t care what the man talked about, as long as he was gathering his belongings into a pack and strapping it over his shoulder.

Of course, the man had to say long and flowery farewells to his monks before leaving. They gathered in the sanctuary, and Achilles entertained himself by figuring out which cowled figure was his Hector as they clustered in silence to hear the last posturings of their inspiration before he abandoned them for the safety of Aram. 

When finally Bardaisan was ready to leave, the monks lifted their hands in silent, solemn farewells, and Achilles held the door as patiently as he could pretend to.

Once the door was closed and they were in the street in cool twilight, Achilles guided Bardaisan toward the stables where he’d boarded his mount.

“Tell me about Philip,” he said.

“Good family, believers, oldest son given to church, has been at the abbey for many years—“

“Philip has?”

“Yes, most good, most devout, very intelligent, learned Latin to translate, can illustrate most holy—“

“And you? You and Philip?”

Bardaisan didn’t seem to understand. Achilles eyed him, wondering if he were being coy. He decided to be blunt.

“You love him?”

“Oh yes, like son. Like son to me, so good, very obedient.”

Satisfied, Achilles approached the stables. “That one there. You leave now?”

The priest hesitated. “It will be a difficult journey.”

Achilles understood. “You need money.”

Now Bardaisan did look coy indeed. Achilles reached into his bag of golden pebbles and brought forth a handful. “If you take this, you leave now,” he said firmly. He wanted to make absolutely sure Bardaisan could afford to go far away. Hector should not kneel to anyone.

The fellow’s eyes widened at the handful of gold, and he accepted it quickly, stashing it away in a purse then tucked into a pocket of his voluminous robes, eyes darting around to make certain no passers-by took too keen an interest.

Achilles paid the stable-master to release his mount, and even helped the rather ungainly Bardaisan onto its back. _Off you go,_ he thought, watching the man ride away down the darkening street. _Hector has no further need of you. He has me now._


	8. The Abbey

Three days had passed since the arrival of Achilles in Edessa, and the departure of King Agbar. The day of the king’s arrest, there had been some reaction. Some of the wealthier citizens in town had gathered in the streets outside the palace, and there had been some shouting, and some speeches.

But the Roman soldiers had been a clear presence, and while no violence erupted, it was evident that unarmed, offended citizens would be at a distinct disadvantage if the soldiers drew their swords.

And the outcry was not large. The king had been… not unpopular, but perhaps considered a tad peculiar. There was no definitive word on whether he was still king, or if he was charged with a crime, or if his sons would still rule. The uncertainty left most citizens unsure exactly what to protest.

The Roman ruler, Caracalla, had sent functionaries to ensure that business continued in the palace, and the increased number of soldiers kept the peace. All in all, it was a bloodless coup, so far.

In the temple, the monks continued their work of archiving the teachings of Bardaisan, now without their leader, but with the interesting addition of a blond warrior, who prowled about the sanctuary and the gardens, apparently guarding them. They regarded him in puzzlement; he regarded them in speculation. The atmosphere in the temple was one of waiting for… something.

In truth, Achilles was in quandary, although it wasn’t entirely an unpleasant quandary. For days now, he had been in constant companionship with his new Hector. That is to say, he watched over him, and ate at the long table with him and his brethren. He hovered in the sanctuary when the monks prayed, marveling at how long they knelt in silence, occasionally moving one hand from their foreheads to their bellies, and to each shoulder, and back again. It seemed to be the same symbol they had on the front door, which Achilles took upon himself to guard.

When Hector sat long hours at his desk, quietly, assiduously translating the endless scrolls into Latin, Achilles roamed in and out of his cell at will, and “Philip” as well as the monks seemed to accept his presence. Lucien held no grudge, and in fact seemed rather proud to be the monk whose robes the angel had chosen. He kept the ropes that had bound him as a relic, wrapped in cloth and tucked into his dresser. And he brought Achilles food from the garden with the air of an acolyte making a sacrifice to his new god.

Each of the monks seemed to have specific duties. Three worked in the garden, three others cleaned, two others left to run errands at the market (and in deference to these uncertain times, left behind their robes and wore normal street wear in order not to draw attention.) Two others seemed to go about to private homes and help the ill and elderly. Hector and one other monk, a much older one, were the scribes. 

The older one, Julius, was a kindly but serious graybeard, tall and gaunt, and gradually it seemed that the others silently deferred to him as the most senior, now that Bardaisan was gone.

The quandary for Achilles was, his Hector was as distant and uncertain of him as ever the Prince of Troy initially had been, and moreover, shrank from any physical touch, and spoke not at all. 

He supposed he could simply force himself upon his beloved as he’d done numerous times when first breaking him in to submit, but the situation at this strange, dark temple… _abbey,_ Bardaisan had called it, was singular. For one thing, it was a silent place, and any moans or cries, whether of fright or arousal, would likely be heard.

To add to this, this new Hector was more private, and more protective of himself, Achilles sensed. The Hector of old, in their early days, was a hostage to the safety of his city, and knew it. He was a man raised to be socially responsible, and responsive. A man who had been given little private time. 

But Hector as Philip cared for nothing but these scrolls, and seemed to have been raised in relative solitude. Achilles supposed he could threaten to burn the silly things, but he was leery of stripping Hector of his purpose in life. He had at least learned not to do that.

So he prowled about the abbey, exploring as he had done the palace of Troy, and contemplating the ways to bring his Hector into an awareness of the real nature of their relationship. On one hand, he was much older in mind than he once had been, and thus more patient. Hector and Achilles had shared many years together, and had explored the carnal pleasures thoroughly. Indeed, in the later years the urges had lessened and they spent many an evening merely enjoying one another’s quiet company. Hector came to him often when family exasperated him, and after years of passion, they had eventually known contentment as well.

But now, Achilles’ body was restored to its youthful energy, and it plagued him with renewed desires. These desires were well-established, and a part of Achilles’ mind and spirit felt himself entitled to the pleasures he and Hector had once shared. His skin positively ached for his prince.

Furthermore, Hector was restored not only to the beauty of his prime, but to an elusive resistance that piqued every hunter’s instinct the warrior possessed. This Hector was a virgin on every level, he was certain, and apparently determined to remain one. Achilles was equally determined that this should not be the case, but when and how… this was a matter of some delicacy, requiring patience. And delicacy and patience were not really the warrior’s specialty.

He told himself to be happy that his beloved was alive… and it was Hector. Every foundational element was the same, from the way his brows gathered up to the quirk of the deep corners of his lips when he was displeased, from the fine bridge of his nose to the manner in which he turned his head. It was maddening. 

What was particularly maddening was Hector's insistence upon covering that beauty from curls to ankles. In particular, Achilles hated the cowl with a passion. There was no point in the cursed thing; there was no one within the walls of the abbey to see him but the other monks, who also slunk around in these ridiculous costumes. 

Yet every morning, Hector appeared for morning prayers shrouded and remote, and Achilles had to wait for mealtime to see his beloved’s face. 

Happily, when he was working at translating, he pushed the cowl back out of the way as well. Achilles would come and hover at his shoulder, making him nervous by staring at the pulse in his neck, the line of his nose, the curls over his ear, until finally his monk would straighten up and turn to look at him with dark, wary, accusing eyes. It seemed that his Hector suspected that the nature of his new angel’s protectiveness was not entirely holy.

Achilles took over Bardaisan’s abandoned apartments at the back of the abbey, which were—not surprisingly—far more commodious and well-appointed than the cells of his acolytes. If he could get Hector back here one night, and if they were quiet… but Hector made no move to seek out Achilles in the rooms at the back of the abbey, and Achilles shrank from making some crass and obvious bid, such as directing him to bring scrolls back and then locking the door behind him to make his play.

By the third day, Achilles’ mood was cantankerous. He prowled the vegetable gardens where Lucien and two others were working, and then climbed up agilely to walk along the top of the high stone wall that surrounded the compound. Like a restless cat, he patrolled it, staring down at passers-by on the dusty road, who occasionally happened to look up and see the blond apparition in the tunic with the sword staring down at them. Sometimes they made the cross on themselves like the monks did and hurried on.

_I need a spear,_ Achilles decided, and leapt down again to take up an abandoned garden hoe from the edge of the garden. The monks peeked surreptitiously at him as he inspected it. He snapped the metal blade off the end of it with his bare hands—which made them pause and stare more openly. Then he took his knife from his belt, sat down on a bench, and began whittling the end to a sharp point.

The point of the spear had finally taken shape when Achilles looked up to find that Hector had emerged from his cell to enjoy a bit of sunshine in the garden. Ah yes. He always did like gardens, although this one was far more utilitarian than the ones Achilles had built for him in their New Ilium. Still, there were fruit trees, and rows of vegetables, and a few modest benches to rest on, near a well for fresh water. 

The warrior paused in his spear-making and watched Hector turn his face up to the sun. He grew still, afraid that if his monk noticed him, he’d retreat under the cowl again. 

Achilles grew suddenly aware of an agitation inside of him. Not carnal. Moral. He did not like this life of deprivation for his Hector. Hector as prince had worked hard, and as King Aeneas, had not slackened, but his life had been one of elegance, and comfort in the hours of repose. But now, here… exercise and enjoyment were lacking here in this strange abbey. His new Hector was pale and rather thin, and spent most of his days hunched over scrolls until his shoulders must ache.

But yanking Hector from his life the last time had not yielded the results Achilles had wanted. He was not content to “play with swords and frolic in the waves,” as his mother had so succinctly put it. Hector must always have a purpose.

Achilles became aware that Hector was looking at him, and with much the same air of contemplation that he himself must be wearing. Suddenly, an almost adolescent urge to impress his prince—for Hector would always be a prince to Achilles—came over him. Behind Hector was a pear tree. Achilles stood, made eye contact with his beloved, and then hefted the makeshift spear and sent it hurtling across the garden and into the branches of the tree. It was an impossibly long throw, and all four monks stood straight and stared in astonishment.

Achilles walked past the gaping Hector and reached up to pluck the spear from the tree. To his amusement, he saw that he’d speared a pear, quite by accident, and brought it down to take from the spear’s end. He pulled it off and sank his teeth into it with enjoyment, staring roguishly at the astonished monk. He was surprised to see his beloved look disturbed, and then alarmed. Hector retreated from the garden immediately.

The warrior watched him go and took another bite of the pear, wondering what had upset the delicate internal balance of his pure-hearted idol. To a Greek warrior of the ancient world, spearing a pear and eating it meant nothing. But in Philip’s world, the phrase “forbidden fruit” had a specific meaning, and beautiful angels who ate fruit from the tree while staring meaningfully at a monk just might be operating outside the realm of light.


	9. Bad Angel

Philip’s quandary was far worse than what Achilles suffered; each night for the last three nights, he'd had a dream. He had the sort of dream a monk ought not to have. He dreamed of lying on his cot unable to move as the beautiful, terrifying blond angel came down upon him, and touched him, and savaged his neck with lips and teeth, and.. there was much more as well. 

He woke up in a sweat, his profane flesh engorged and leaking, and shamefully, he did things base and wrong to himself to ease the pressure. Then he tip-toed about his cell, cleaning the evidence away by candlelight and hiding the cloth till it could be washed in secret. Now he was wracked with confusion and guilt.

At first he was simply of the opinion that he was weak in faith, and had carnal lusts that he must pray to overcome. But when Achilles speared the pear, and ate it with such a meaningful look at him, it dawned on his monk that the angel could be influencing him somehow. It might be an angel not on a true mission, but come to Earth for his own reasons. Yet, he did not know! The being had helped the save the scrolls, had helped Bardaisan on his journey. Bardaisan himself seemed to trust him.

But Philip was not so naïve as Achilles believed. He felt it when the blond warrior came into his cell and gazed at him as if he’d loved him all his life. He felt the pull of it, the temptation to simply abandon his work, abandon his Order, and put himself in the hands of this foreign force to let it take him and do with him whatever it desired to do. Surely, however, that would be wrong.

Even this morning, he was bent over his scrolls, and the quill in his hand had not moved for many minutes. He was lost in thoughts about the angel. Lucien had broken silence long enough to whisper to him one evening that the angel had told him that his name was Kilis.

Philip had spent the next morning sifting furtively through scrolls, looking for the names of angels. He could not find a Kilis, but found a Kushiel, an angel of punishment, and wondered if Lucien had simply misunderstood. 

Suddenly the hair rose on his neck and he understood that Kilis was behind him again. He turned to see the blond warrior at his door. He had his cloak over his tunic, and in addition to his sword, carried a leather bag and a wineskin on straps over his shoulder. 

The monk put his quill down and gave the warrior a troubled stare. The blue eyes regarded him with the very warmth and intensity that haunted his dreams, but all Kilis said was, “I go to buy things. Come with me.”

Protesting non-verbally, the monk indicated his scrolls, but the other waved them away. “Come. You need sunshine.”

He wavered and Achilles reached out and touched his face; he couldn’t bear another minute without a single touch. He lay his hand gently but warmly on his Hector’s cheek, and the shock of touch simply wiped the monk’s mind clean for a moment. He raised large, haunted brown eyes to the other, feeling that if indeed this angel planned his downfall, there was probably very little he could do against such a force.

Achilles felt the moment of weakness and spread his fingers, letting them drift down to his beloved’s neck. He watched the dark eyes flutter closed for a moment and felt a lightning bolt of satisfaction. His Hector was not immune to him. The knowledge inflated like a bubble in his chest, bringing a quick taste of joy to his mouth, and he wanted very much to kiss his prince once again.

With unaccustomed self-restraint, however, Achilles retreated and tugged gently at Hector’s rough robe. “Come. Put on something that will allow you to pass unnoticed. Roman guards still abound. Show me the nearest market place.”

Still Hector hesitated. 

“I demand it,” Achilles said, by way of experiment.

Instantly, Hector stiffened and turned back to his scrolls, only to stare in affront when his angel let out a snort of laughter.

“I meant to say, I beg it of you, please, my Hector.” There was no mistaking the mocking tone, although the affection was also evident.

It occurred to the monk that Kilis would not let him be until he complied, and so he drew in his breath, let it out very slowly, and rose from his stool. He doffed the robe quickly and, aware that he was being watched every moment, pulled a long grey garment with fitted sleeves from his dresser and slipped it on over his white robe. His neck and head felt terribly exposed.

He turned to see Kilis as still as a statue, staring at him with peculiar intensity. For a long moment, he stared back, feeling as though this moment had happened to him before, but in darkness, by firelight. Perhaps in a dream.

“Come,” Kilis said quietly, and added, “Hector.”

Picking uneasily at his sleeves as if he wished they were long enough to cover even his hands, Philip followed obediently, and found that he felt rather light and awake all at once, that the heaviness that usually pressed upon him, the seriousness of his calling and the urgency of his responsibility to save Bardaisan’s work receded, and he was simply a man going to the market with a person who greatly intrigued and frightened and excited him all at once. Suddenly the day felt brighter, and as they stepped into the sunshine, he realized how long it had been since he had ventured outside without his robes and cowl.

They walked down the dusty street in silence for a while, passing the walls of private homes and compounds, often in the shade of the spreading, overhanging trees whose branches reached over those walls.

“So you have taken a vow of silence,” Achilles said.

Philip nodded.

“All the monks have?” He clarified.

Philip nodded again.

“But only your voice?”

Philip looked at him from the corner of his eye warily.

“Not your feet. Crunch-crunch-crunch,” Achilles teased him.

His Hector stopped walking for a moment, glaring at him.

Achilles stopped too, aglow with happiness to be simply walking along with his beloved and teasing him again. Simple pleasures like this, he had missed greatly.

After a moment, the monk took a step.

“Crunch!” Achilles said with a grin.

Philip stopped again and suddenly a reluctant chuckle escaped him. He shook his head and started walking again, head down to hide his smile. Achilles was enchanted by that one tiny crack in the stern façade. 

“So, you can be silent in Syriac and Latin. Have you studied any other languages to not speak in?”

Philip gave him an expressive look, probably meant to shame him for taunting a monk who cannot fight back, but shame was foreign to Achilles, and toying with his beloved was a habit of long-standing. 

“Wait!” Achilles held up his hands and they stopped walking again. “Can you be silent in Greek? Be silent in Greek.”

Philip was fighting the urge to laugh again, and yet was exasperated with the wicked angel for taking his vows so lightly. He walked on, and Achilles fell in again at his side.

“No. No, I see you cannot be silent in Greek.”

“And you cannot be silent at all,” he finally muttered in Syriac, provoked.

“AH! Ah ha!” Achilles nearly leapt at him in joy, but managed to control himself. “I knew you had a voice! Now we can have done with this silence nonsense. You must talk to me, or… I’ll tell all the monks back at the abbey that you spoke.” 

Philip stopped again and gave him a serious look. There was a long pause as he contemplated how to get his point across in as few words as possible. 

“It’s not a law,” he finally said in Holy Tongue. “It’s a choice.”

“Why would one make such a choice?” Achilles demanded instantly, losing his smile.

Philip looked at him for several moments, trying to formulate a response that would end the discussion, because it was clear the angel would keep him talking if he could. He was rather angry at himself for opening his mouth at all. _Once you start, _he reminded himself.

Finally, he said, “Either you understand, or you don’t.” Then he started off again. The market was in sight, and he pointed to it, hoping to distract Kilis.

As they drew near the wooden stalls beneath their canvas awnings, Achilles looked over at his stern, solemn, beautiful companion. “You’ll have to speak in the market, or they’ll know you’re a monk.”

His Hector lifted his head and for a moment, he was utterly the Prince of Troy again. “I am not ashamed of what I am.”

“But it’s not safe for your Order now, with Abgar gone,” Achilles said, his gaze drinking in the beloved profile.

“I am not afraid.” Hector stated, his eyes distant. Then he looked over at the warrior and a trace of dry humor was visible. “I have you to protect me.”

“Yes, you do.” Achilles said firmly, “all your life,” he added, looking about them at the people moving from stall to stall with their baskets. The morning was warm, but not yet burning hot.

He turned back to see his Hector regarding him uncertainly. “Why?” 

Achilles fastened his gaze on his beloved’s face, tracing adoringly over the worried brow, the deep-set eyes, the familiar shape of the wide cheekbones and jaw. He took a step closer and said with as much meaning as he could infuse into the words, “Either you understand, or you don’t.”

Hector froze like prey. His lips parted and his breath drew in quickly, eyes wide.

“I see you understand.” Achilles said quietly in his own language, with a little smile. Then he reverted to court language again. “Come. Help me find a place where they sell oils for the skin.”

Blinking rapidly, head down again, Philip followed him meekly enough, but his inner agitation was evident. Achilles disregarded it for now. Compliance was all that was required at first, until he could bring his Hector to an understanding. If he could make the Prince of Troy love him, he could certainly do so with this lonely, affection-starved monk.

“Here,” he said, identifying a stall with the familiar clay pots. Some things did not change much. He picked through the assortment, sniffing them with brow-furrowed concentration, until he found the three that he wanted. He turned, holding one up for his Hector. “Smell that.”

Philip leaned forward and inhaled, and the scent went into his head like smoke, making him suddenly dazed with a strange, longing pang. He stepped back, staring at the jar. Then his eyes lifted to Achilles, whose direct gaze was like a light shining into his eyes.

He wanted to ask what such an oil was for, but his courage, and his ability to form the words failed him. His angel smiled, but his eyes were like blue fire. “I will show you. Perhaps tonight.”

Philip turned and staggered out of the market square, making dizzily for the shade of a large tree near a sandstone wall. Reaching it, he sank down and leaned against the wall, staring at nothing.

In a few moments, Achilles joined him, and offered him a drink of well-water from the wineskin he carried.

Philip drank, and then gave the wineskin back. When he dared lift his eyes, he was not surprised to see Kilis looking into his with warm promise.

“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “No. No. No. No. No. No. No.”

Achilles’ gaze did not waver. He leaned close. “One ‘no’ I might believe. Seven, I don’t.”

Philip just sat, arms on his knees, shaking his head in denial, eyes on the grass between his feet.

Achilles reclined back and put his arms behind his head, smiling. He’d forgotten how tantalizing and heady that first rush up the beach could be.


	10. A Serious Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Achilles really doesn't know anything about the culture he's in. He's about to learn.

There was no fire pit in the abbey, that was one thing that Achilles found peculiar about this foreign clime. He supposed they didn’t need it; it was much hotter here than in Greece, or in the northern peninsula where their New Ilium had grown. 

The monks used candles for light, and needed many of them, because their temple had almost no windows. Yet it was understandable. The cool stone helped keep out the heat of the day. But it gave the place a strange, haunted feel at night, and Achilles imagined the Underworld of the Dead might be rather like this: a place of candles and shadows and silence, where hooded figures moved silently about.

The sanctuary with the altar was the largest room, and functioned as a sort of hall. In a palace, it would be the room the generals held council in. But it was not central. It was the front of the compound, and a cornerstone. One hallway led north, back to the kitchen, where they also ate, like servants, and beyond them were the apartments of Bardaisan’s (now occupied by the Order of the Valentinians’ very own guardian angel) and the other led west, and was lined with the small monks’ cells. Between the two wings lay the vegetable gardens and the well in what would have, in a palace, been a courtyard or decorative gardens. Walls made the square complete.

Achilles did not particularly like the abbey, although if he and Hector had it to themselves, and Hector shared his bed with him at night, it would have been Elysium. 

When the evening meal was done, the monks cleaned up after themselves and then went—again—to pray at the altar. Achilles paced quietly about behind them, eyes roving, occasionally turning to the familiar figure on its knees before the strange statue of the man with bleeding hands. 

_Truly odd,_ he thought, and then let it concern him no longer. He was marveling at how easy it was now for him to identify his beloved even in the identical robes. Hector’s shoulders, his step, his fine hands… it was incredible that he’d watched him enter and leave the captured Abgar’s palace that first day without identifying him. But he’d been so certain the hidden king was his beloved.

Finally, the monks finished their prayers, not all at once, but first one, then another, crossed himself one last time and rose—some more stiffly than others—to retreat to their cells for the night. Hector was the last to rise. But when he finally did, and turned, Achilles was waiting for him.

“Come to my rooms tonight,” the warrior breathed, just loud enough for his monk to hear him.

The hooded head turned toward him, and he could barely make out the beloved face in its deep shadow. The monk shook his head, No, No, No.

“I’ll wait for you,” Achilles said in the softest of voices, eyes ardent and intent. “I’ll have candles burning all night, waiting for you.”

The hooded head turned left and right, not in negative, but in a toss of resistance and agitation.

“All night,” he whispered again. “All night they’ll burn, waiting for you.”

Hector fled to his cell and Achilles watched him go, eyes dark like a cat’s. 

When the last rustling sounds of various monks faded to silence, Achilles took two candles and made his way down the corridor, past the kitchen, to his suite, and just as he’d promised, lit several candles. Then he stripped himself naked and lay down, sprawled and comfortable in the white sheets, and relaxed. He didn’t really expect his shy monk to come tonight. But he certainly hoped that Hector’s dreams were wanton and disturbing. In fact, he smiled to himself, if he could turn pebbles to gold, perhaps he could send dreams.

Achilles closed his eyes and deliberately pictured himself leaning over a prone, naked Hector, running his hands lovingly down the curve of his beloved’s back, and over his buttocks, and then between them, slowly and deeply, slick with oil, up and down. He pictured that beloved face, dark eyes closed, mouth open, lost in sensation. _I will make you feel this way,_ he promised silently, and hoped this dream made his former lover squirm in his sleep, and wake up throbbing and hot.

***

In the morning, Achilles awoke—alone—to see the sunshine already streaming in. The candles were all puddles of wax, and the monks had long been up and about their duties. Grumpily, he pulled himself out of the bed and went directly into the garden to the well for water. As he drank and watched Lucius and two other monks weed the rows of vegetables, it seemed to Achilles that there was rather more noise than normal in the roadway outside the high walls of their compound. 

Climbing agilely up the pear tree, the warrior peered down through the leaves to see a small troop of about a dozen Roman soldiers making their way along, perhaps on a routine patrol, but still… that was the most he’d seen at a time just out and about. It seemed that the presence of Rome was intensifying in Edessa, now that Abgar was removed.

Quietly, Achilles lowered himself back into the garden and went into the abbey to search for Hector. He wasn’t surprised to find his monk seated stiffly at his desk, translating another scroll. He could see from the slight movement of the dark head that Hector was aware of him the moment he entered the cell.

“Good morning,” Achilles greeted him in court tongue, and couldn’t resist reaching out with one hand to gently touch his beloved’s hand as it rested on the open scroll. He saw Hector’s eyes close briefly as he drew in his breath, and then he moved his shoulders slightly, and refocused determinedly on his work, ignoring the presence over his left shoulder.

Achilles glanced over the pile of scrolls. “How many more have you to translate?”

Hector ignored him.

Achilles picked one scroll up casually. “If I burn this one, how many will you have?”

Hector looked at the scroll with concern in his eyes, but tried not to react. He carefully placed his quill in the ink pot. “Eleven.”

“How long does each one take?”

“When no one bothers me? One day,” Hector said with an edge to his voice.

“And when they are all translated? What then?”

“Then I will make a copy of each.” Hector was not looking him in the eye.

“And when you have made a copy of each?” Achilles wondered when this fruitless labor would end.

“I’ll make another,” his monk said quietly.

This would not do.

“You will spend your life making copies of that fellow’s opinions?” Achilles asked darkly.

Finally, Hector looked at him. “That is my duty.”

Achilles regarded his prince. Yes, some things remained the same, did they not? And Hector looked pale this morning, and had dark circles under his deep eyes. His lips were compressed as if in pain, and his straight brows were drawn down forbiddingly.

“Was this your choice in life?” Achilles asked suddenly.

Hector turned back to his desk. “I am the oldest son.” He said with finality, and picked up his quill again.

Achilles’ lips turned up slightly at the corners. Already he was beginning to formulate ways to extract his Hector from this life. Unlike being Prince of Troy, this was not a duty on which lives depended, and there was no Priam nearby to draw Hector’s attention away from Achilles again and again. No city lay in need of his protection. Even if it developed that “Philip” could not be content unless he was copying these wretched scrolls every day, this was something that could be done anywhere.

Now Achilles was thinking that his mother’s island might be an ideal place for a monk to copy scrolls for a few hours a day, before his lover dragged him away to train with swords, ride horses, and what was it? Frolic in the sea? And make love? Yes, Achilles thought, perhaps a compromise is possible. 

He reached up and touched the black curls at Hector’s neck with loving fingers, and stroked them slowly.

Hector grew even more rigid, if possible, and put the quill down again. His eyes were fixed on some point just beyond his desk, and the expression on his face was one of sorrow and fear.

“I beg you,” he whispered, sounding both formal and desperate at once. “I… I beg you.”

Achilles’ smile grew. Hector had never begged, even in such formal, firm tones. He occasionally made a royal demand to be released (which was never obeyed), and when overcome with passion, he succumbed without any aura of tragedy. But here, in this incarnation, he looked positively anguished.

Achilles decided he had tormented his beloved enough for the moment. Meaning to go and investigate the increased Roman presence in the quarter, he clapped a hand on Hector’s back in preparation to take his leave. 

Hector arched his back instantly, threw his head back, and gave a hiss. His hands rose up off the desk as if he would claw the air, but he caught himself and held very still.

Alarmed, Achilles jerked his hand back and stared at him.

Hector’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his lips drawn back in a snarl of agony.

Achilles eyes traveled over the monk’s back quickly, searching for some clue as to the source of this sudden flinch of pain.

“Are you hurt??” He demanded.

Hector did not move or respond.

Achilles’ eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he placed his hand on Hector’s back in another spot, between the shoulder blades.

Hector arched yet more, as if to escape his hand, and a smothered grunt escaped his throat.

Without further thought or hesitation, Achilles grabbed the robes that fastened at the monk’s throat and ripped them open, drawing them off quickly but carefully, trying not to abrade or disturb his beloved’s back.

“No—“ Hector managed, but the robes were hurled to the floor, and Achilles stared at the white robe that remained, stuck to his monk’s back with large patches of blood that had seeped through hours before. His shoulders and upper back were covered with blood, some of it dried.

Horror-struck, astounded, Achilles simply stared for a moment, feeling as if shields were crashing together in his head in a deafening crescendo.

Then he grabbed the white material and made as if to tug it off, but Hector gave a ringing cry of pain that paralyzed the warrior, and writhed away, leaving his stool to retreat from his ministrations.

The two stared at each other for a moment, Hector in agonized defiance, and Achilles with pale-eyed rage. 

Those were whip marks.


	11. Shock

“Who did this?!” Achilles blazed, his eyes wide with the promise of murder.

Hector’s jaw clenched shut and he lowered his head and glared back without speaking.

_“WHO DID THIS?!” _Achilles roared, and behind him he could hear the slapping of sandals as several monks came running to investigate.

Julius, the older monk, was the one unfortunate enough to reach the doorway first. Achilles grabbed him by the throat and pinned him to the wall. The old monk’s eyes were wide, but he offered no real resistance, only brought his own hands up to the hand that held him, reflexively, and tried to loosen the fingers enough to breathe.

“Was it you?!” Achilles’ voice went from a furious roar to dangerously quiet. “I will break you into pieces like firewood,” he promised, wide eyes boring into his choking captive.

“No, no,” Lucien was right behind him, and seemed to regard the vow of silence as not something that should interfere with saving a life. “Not Julius, not Julius,” he spoke enough court tongue for that, at least.

Achilles released him and stood panting, staring at Hector, who had backed further away from him and stood tensely near his bed, barefoot and pale in his bloodstained white robe. 

When the warrior finally spoke, it was with the deadly calm that bespoke his most extreme emotions. “You tell me who did this or I will take this abbey apart. I’ll burn every scroll. I’ll break every pot and table and stool. I’ll destroy everything I touch.” His eyes were glassy and pale, and the monks believed him implicitly.

Yet for a moment, no one spoke. Achilles and Hector stared at each other in silent battle.

Achilles turned his head and gave the scrolls, lying near the candles on the desk, a deliberate appraisal. The threat in his eyes was clear, and very near.

Hector made a move as if he would protect the scrolls, but Achilles stepped toward his monk and the other shrank back as if he dreaded the warrior’s touch.

Finally, Lucien slid past Julius and Achilles and, with an apologetic glance toward Hector, reached down by the simple cot against the wall and picked up a device that Achilles recognized. It was a flogger, but different than those he had known in the days of commanding his own army. The handle was much longer, and the leather strips much shorter.

A horrible notion was growing in his mind. Why was this cursed item by his Hector’s bed?

“Who did this?” He asked one more time, but now in dread.

Hector’s cheek and jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth and continued to glare at the warrior in silence.

Lucien and Julius exchanged glances, and finally Julius gave a nod.

Lucien briefly demonstrated, lightly, how a man brought the handle up across his own chest to let the straps, with their knots, and bits of metal at the end, fly over his own shoulder and wrap around his back.

Achilles’ face creased in revulsion, and he snatched the atrocity from Lucien and tore it to shreds on the spot, ripping the leather strips to pieces, breaking the handle, and finally hurling the remains into a corner.

Then he grabbed Hector by one wrist and the opposite shoulder, and forced him to his knees. Holding him there, he turned to Lucien.

“Water,” he said flatly, pointing to the pitcher on the small table by the cot.

Obediently, Lucien handed him the water, and Julius turned to discreetly urge the monks hovering in the doorway, observing this scene silently, to withdraw. Julius closed the door and watched with accepting eyes as Achilles poured the water over Hector’s bloody robe to loosen it from his wounds.

No one spoke. When the water had soaked the material and Hector was kneeling in the puddle, Achilles carefully peeled the robe off of his shoulders, ripping it into several pieces as needed.

Philip, on his knees, in the hands of his furious angel, bit his lips and bowed his head in stubborn misery. He’d spent the night in a welter of desire and shame, and finally drove it away by the only means he had. Now he found himself being stripped bare by the very man whose presence had reduced him to such a state. He let his head rest against Kilis muscular thigh and closed his eyes. He was doomed.

When his beloved was bared to the waist, Achilles stared down at his back, at the gouges and welts, some still bleeding, others red and inflamed. His head was positively dizzy with horror and outrage. Never in all their years together was he forced to look upon a bleeding, wounded Hector. His gut clenched. 

He felt Hector lay his curly head against his thigh, and Achilles put one hand on the dark locks, caressing them unconsciously.

If his mother were here, she could heal him, he thought wretchedly. She had brought him back from the brink of death. Her skills were formidable. He had no such skill.

Did he?

Then, suddenly, he remembered her saying, “Do you see this shell? This represents what you know…” and he remembered her telling him that he had been born with the power to turn shells into gold, he’d simply never needed it. 

If he had inherited that gift from her, was it not very likely he’d inherited others? At least, a shadow of it? A trace?

Achilles closed his eyes in silent prayer to his mother, and then with one hand back on his beloved’s shoulder, and the other hand buried in the dark hair, he concentrated on healing. He thought of the shells, and how all he did was hold them and think _gold._ Now he held his wounded treasure and thought, _Heal. Heal. Let the fire in the flesh cool. Let the wounds knit. Let the swelling recede. Heal. Heal. Heal._

For a long moment, he was only aware of his breathing, and the feeling of the one he loved quivering under his hands, head resting against his thigh. _Heal. Heal._

The gasps of the two monks bearing witness made Achilles open his eyes. Looking down now, he saw that the curved white back before him was at least somewhat improved. The red, inflamed skin had lost its angry, swollen burn, and the wounds were no longer wet and running. Scabs and dried blood crusted over the wounds. Hector’s back now looked as if two or three days had passed, and all infection was cleared.

Achilles reached down and swept a slow, gentle hand over the skin, fingers dragging over the ridges, wishing his love could erase them entirely, smooth them away into nothing. But it was better than it had been moments ago.

Hector’s eyes flew open and he flinched, expecting pain when the warm hand passed over his back, but felt the difference immediately. Confusedly, he stayed on his knees, mind unable to grasp this development. He was suddenly exhausted, not wanting to lift his head from that hard thigh, not wanting the hand in his hair to release him. He didn’t want to move at all. He closed his eyes again and waited to see what would be done with him.

Lucien and Julius were staring in awe at their brother’s back. Then they looked at each other.

Lucien whispered something in their native tongue—Achilles knew not what—and Julius nodded agreement. Then they both turned their eyes on Achilles, and there was no doubt now that to them, he was most definitely an angel. 

“Come,” Achilles breathed, lifting the exhausted monk to his feet. “Have this room cleaned,” he directed Lucien as he escorted the dazed, half naked man from the monk’s wing.

“You’re going into my rooms. You’re getting into my bed. You’re going to sleep. I will not interfere with you. You understand?” He asked as he pulled his Hector along. The monks in the sanctuary turned discreetly away as they passed through.

Once Achilles had his beloved in his room, he closed the door and stripped off the remains of the sodden, bloody robe. He gave his lover a quick, dispassionate check for any other signs of injury or damage, and finding only that he was too thin, nudged him into the bed—he lay face down, rather curled—and Achilles covered him with soft sheets and blankets.

He stood over the bed, gazing down at the tired face he so loved. Hector still did not want to look him in the eye. Achilles leaned over him and put a warm hand on the back of his neck.

“If you ever do that again, if you ever injure yourself in any way, in any way, I will destroy every bit of work you have done for Bardaisan,” he said in a low but steely voice. “Do you understand?”

The monk gave a fatigued, defeated nod and closed his eyes.

“Sleep now,” Achilles told him, and could not resist giving his silky curls a few more strokes.

Hector’s face contorted as if the gentle fingers in his hair pained him more than the scourge had. “Please stop. Please stop.” He whispered.

Achilles drew back, gritting his teeth in sudden frustration. This was not going to be as easy as he’d hoped.


	12. Contemplation

Philip opened his eyes in mid-afternoon. He was sprawled naked in the bed, alone, thankfully covered by soft sheets. He turned his face into the pillow and it smelled of Kilis. _For just a moment, _he told himself, and wrapped his arms around it tightly, pushing his face deep into it, and inhaling slowly, again and again. It was a delicious agony.

Finally, he forced himself to release the pillow, roll over, open his eyes and take stock of his situation. His back felt no pain, and he was not entirely sorry for it, even though the pain had taken his mind off of his confusing passion for the warrior angel. 

_Why is he here? To protect me? Or to test me? Can it be both? Will I lose the protection when I fail his test?_ And failure seemed very near.

Philip’s hands slowly clenched and loosened on the fine sheets, and clenched again as he contemplated. If he left the abbey, his family would not take him back. He would have shamed his father in abandoning his duties. He had known from a young age that his father’s fascination with this new and compelling religion would be enacted through him, the eldest son. He didn’t resist it. It was an honor to be the embodiment of his father’s faith.

At least, it was the most honor he was going to get as only child of his father’s first wife. The eldest son of his current, most beloved wife was the true heir to his father’s heart and fortune. Philip accepted this. He knew his parent’s marriage had been bitter and brief. His mother died giving birth to him. He was the relic of an unhappy union, and when his father had sent him to be an acolyte at the church, he had been grateful that such a respectable situation had been granted him.

Until the appearance of Kilis, the disturbing creature with the long blond hair and blue eyes, Philip had been at relative peace with his life of sacrifice. There was no question but that Bardaisan’s teachings were profound, and important. His journeys to foreign lands had granted him a perspective that allowed him to meld and synthesize the elements of ancient beliefs with this new view of life, and sacrifice, and sin, and purity… and Philip was part of the apparatus that would spread this view across the land.

Then comes the warrior angel, who helped them save the scrolls, and then put his hand on Philip’s shoulder, and called him Hector, and made it clear with every loving gaze that the saving of the scrolls and the destruction of Philip’s purity, and his vows, and his hope of Salvation, were inextricably linked. 

The worst of it was, Philip simply did not know where his duty lay now. Was he a sacrifice to this angel? If so, he would gladly (far, far too gladly) accept it, if only he could know that was what his destiny was intended to be. But what if it was not? What if this was a test, and his duty was to resist it? He did not know, and not knowing his duty—and thus being unable to fulfill it—was for Philip the worst possible state of mind.

He’d prayed endlessly for a sign, some guidance, and now he wondered if the healing were that sign. He had torn himself to shreds in the name of resistance to this passion. The angel had forced him to his knees and healed him, and put him in his own bed. That must be a sign.

Or a test. _Am I spiritual, or am I material,_ Philip wondered miserably.

The door opened, and Philip startled, sitting up and pulling the sheets over him, but it was only Lucien bringing him a plate of viands.

He accepted it with both hands, gratefully, and the two exchanged slight nods of understanding. Philip ate quickly, and Lucien seemed to think he should stay. Probably he wanted a chance to look around the suite; Bardaisan’s rooms had been understood to be off limits to his followers, and he kept the door locked but now? Lucien tip-toed about quietly as Philip ate, peeking at the fine furnishings and woven hangings. 

There was nothing of Kilis here, Philip thought, except a few pots of scented oil, and the heady scent itself, in the pillows. Then his eyes caught sight of the puddles of wax running over their holders and realized with a surge of emotion that Kilis had indeed let the candles burn all night, waiting for him.

Philip finished his meal and handed the plate back, and Lucien took it as if he felt he should go. But Philip made an awkward gesture, and the other monk seemed by his open expression to agree that some situations called for a judicious interpretation of the Vow of Silence.

“Where is Kilis?” Philip asked.

Lucien shook his head. “He left the abbey with his sword. I think he is uneasy about the soldiers.”

“Can you get me more robes?”

The smaller man’s gaze became evasive. “I think Kilis wants you to stay in here.”

Alarmed, Philip slid from the bed, pulling the sheets with him as if he would run through the abbey wrapped in them if he must.

Lucien held up a placating hand, averting his eyes. “Wait. I will get some. But… may I see your back again?” He asked timidly.

Lowering his eyes, Philip sat back in the bed and turned slightly. Lucien gazed for a moment and then said slowly, “You know this is a miraculous healing.”

Philip turned back and pulled the sheets higher to cover himself. “But I don’t know what it means.”

Lucien nodded agreeably, but it was clear from the puzzlement in his eyes that he didn’t know as any meaning needed to be taken from it. But Kilis was probably not sending Lucien disturbing dreams at night, and staring at him like a pagan.

“I’ll get the robes,” Lucien promised, and left.

Philip was relieved when his brother monk returned with garb that would allow him to retreat to his room and resume his duties. He wanted to be out of Kilis’ bedroom before the warrior angel returned.

Achilles, after leaving his Hector sleeping in his bed—a satisfying sight indeed—went first to the marketplace to buy a cap to cover his hair, and clothing to change his appearance, before going back to the palace to loiter, prowl, and investigate. What he saw disturbed him: the number of Roman soldiers had definitely increased. They seemed to be arriving daily. 

Moreover, the appearance of the palace was changing. Statues and symbols, none of which meant anything to Achilles, were being removed, taken to the courtyard, and methodically smashed. The pieces were carted perfunctorily away. It wasn’t like the violent sacking of Troy; It was the calm redecorating at the order of the distant Caracalla, who apparently did not like the Jesu god. The wooden crosses and statues of the man with bleeding hands were replaced by busts of a god apparently named Serapis, from what Achilles could gather. He seemed to be similar to Hades, but from far south. He had never heard of either, and rather marveled at all these new gods.

Returning to the marketplace, Achilles prowled until he found his bright-eyed pickpocket, who seemed to brighten even more when he saw the Greek coming through the crowd toward him.

“There! The Angel of the Valentinans!” 

“What?” Achilles already had a gold pebble in his hand, ready to give it for information, but the young thief had startled him.

“They call you now Angel of the Valentians. You helped them in the temple. You stand guard on their wall,” the young man’s eyes roved over him quickly. “I told them I knew you but they believed no.”

“Do you have a name,” the warrior asked suddenly.

“Maribus,” the young man grinned, and then gestured that they should step between two stalls and into a darkened doorway. Clearly the young thief did not want to share the gold-bearing angel with the other young thieves of the market.

“What is angel, exactly?” Achilles asked quietly, holding up a gold pebble temptingly.

“Messenger of God,” Maribus said, eyes on the pebble.

“Which god?”

Maribus shrugged. “Some say there is only one, over all.”

“Like Zeus?” Achilles was definitely at loss.

“Maybe yes… most powerful, like Zeus.”

“And they call him Jesu, and his hands bleed?” Achilles handed him the pebble. The dirty fingers closed over it instantly.

“No, Jesu is God’s son.”

Ah. That, Achilles understood. “What is this God’s name?”

Maribus shrugged. “God.”

“He has no name?” This was a strange culture, the warrior decided.

“They say sometimes Yahova,” Maribus remembered.

Achilles sighed. Very well, it was enough for him to work with. “More Roman soldiers each day now,” he remarked, blue eyes on the youth.

“Yes. Ca’calla going to wipe away Jesu and Yahova people. Return to Old Gods. Your abbey need more angels,” Maribus warned. Then he turned and darted away, as if feeling that too long a conversation with the Angel of the Valentinans would draw attention.

Achilles watched the young man disappear into the crowd that milled about the market square. He was only a pickpocket, what could he know? Nevertheless, it was clear to Achilles that his little band of dependents were about to find themselves unwelcome in Edessa, and their abbey was distressingly close to the palace. They were likely to be second on the housecleaning list of this Ca’calla. Perhaps he was just in time to remove his Hector from danger after all.


	13. Tension

When Achilles returned, he considered who best to consult with. Julius, the oldest of the monks, seemed to have a calm, wise demeanor that the others naturally deferred to. But he spoke very little Latin. His Hector was the only one Achilles could truly make himself understood to, and his Hector, he knew almost instinctively, would resist what Achilles was about to suggest: they needed to hide the scrolls somewhere, and either leave Edessa, or leave their Order, don normal clothing, return to their families, and be prepared to claim that they had returned to whatever True God this Caracalla preferred.

Already, Achilles knew enough of priests and their sort to know: many would stubbornly refuse to denounce their deity. His temple might be sacked, his altar smashed, his statue beheaded—Achilles knew this for personal fact—but they would cling to him nonetheless.

Still, he had to try. It was odd, though, he reflected as he made his way up the dusty street in cooling twilight. Hector had been remarkably pragmatic about the gods. He showed the proper respect in public, but no faith or trust, and certainly no starry-eyed reverence. But as Philip, he was very involved with this Jesu figure. His prayers before the bloody-handed statue were long and intense, and as for that business with the flogger… Achilles actually shuddered at the thought of it. His devotion toward Troy, and later the New Ilium they had founded, seemed to have been replaced by his devotion to this new religion.

When he returned, Achilles was not pleased—but not surprised—to find that his monk had left the suite in the back of the abbey, and resumed his translating work in his cell, clad in robes and cowl again.

The warrior entered the cell and drew near, seeing by the way his beloved froze at his work that his presence had been noted. He placed a gentle, exploratory hand on his beloved’s back.

“Does this hurt?” He asked quietly.

Hector had paused in his transcribing, but did not turn or lift his eyes.

“No,” he whispered.

Achilles moved his hand down to another spot, and Hector straightened involuntarily, lifting his head and staring off at the wall.

“That hurts?”

“No.”

“Show me.” Achilles said briskly, divesting himself of his leather pouch and wine skin, and removing the belt which held his sword and knife to lay it all on Hector’s cot. Then he closed the door to the cell.

Hector shook his head stubbornly, still avoiding eye contact. His head was lowered and his straight brows were drawn over his dark eyes. Achilles knew that look, and loved it, but he had a look of his own, and it was very direct.

“Shall I rip another set of robes off of you? It would be my pleasure,” he remarked, and waited as Hector wavered, gritted his teeth, and then stood and turned his back. He slipped the rough, outer robes off. He then drew the thin white cotton robe off of his shoulders and lowered it to his waist.

Achilles brought his hands up to caress the scabbed wounds on the healing skin. Now that the blood was cleaned away, and he could explore with this hands as well as his eyes, he could see that this was not the first time. New marks crossed old scars that were raised and long, and the warrior’s face was dark with displeasure.

One of the fresher marks was still more large and scabbed than Achilles could bear. He put his hand on it, thinking, _heal… heal…_ but felt suddenly that his hand—too far from the emotions roiling inside of him—was not enough. Wrapping his other arm around his beloved, he drew him close and placed his cheek against the wound, almost shouting in his mind, _HEAL!_

When he drew back, the scab had dried and shrunk further, and he brushed his fingers over it, scowling. This would take time.

Meanwhile, his Hector seemed almost to cringe at his touch, despite how gentle it was.

“This still hurts?” Achilles was puzzled and distressed.

“No,” Hector insisted, and then stepped away and turned, giving him the first direct look in a day. It was a look of pained pleading. “What do you want from me?” He finally asked.

Achilles let his hands fall. “First, I want to know you will never do this to yourself again.”

Hector pulled his robes back up around him. “I won’t,” he said shortly. There was no point to it anyway, if the angel could simply undo it.

“Secondly, I want you to sleep in my quarters with me.”

Hector turned to him so quickly, and his eyes were so wide, Achilles could see he’d actually shocked his monk.

“What kind of place do you think this is?” He said suddenly. “We aren’t Romans, or any of the other licentious types. We don’t violate one another. You see there are no women here, and no slave boys. We don’t do such things.”

Achilles was puzzled. “Not at all?”

“Not at all!”

“Why not?”

Hector looked at him as if he were mad. “It’s wrong! What kind of angel are you not to know it’s wrong?”

_Ah yes. Angel. _“I have a message from Yahova,” he said abruptly. “He says you need to leave here soon. Hide the scrolls and get out.”

His Hector looked at him strangely. It didn’t seem to him that God would employ an angel who delivered His Holy Edicts with all the reverence of _cook says dinner is ready._

“Hide the scrolls where?” The monk asked suspiciously.

Achilles shrugged; he didn’t care what happened to them. He retrieved his belongings from Hector’s cot and turned to leave. “Consult with the others. We have a few days. But when the time comes that I say leave, you are leaving with me,” he promised.

His Hector looked very much as though he would like to refuse. His most stern look was in evidence as he pulled his robes tighter around his throat. But he said nothing.

Achilles paused at the door. “Come to me tonight,” he said, head tipped. He let a little smile play about his lips. “You see now how soft that bed is,” he added temptingly.

The monk’s eyes grew, if anything, more offended. “Oh? A soft bed? And is there candied fruit as well? I’m not a street urchin to be lured.”

Achilles merely gazed at him for a moment, wondering how best to overcome this strange resistance to pleasure.

“And you cannot buy me with your little gold pebbles,” his monk added.

Achilles felt a spark of resentment at that. “How big do they have to be? How much did your father get for you when he sold you to Bardaisan?”

Hector’s eyes grew huge. “You are very fortunate that our Order shuns violence,” he said in a husky voice. 

“Does it? Then why did they give you a whip?” Achilles snapped, his own eyes lit up with storm clouds.

Hector tightened his lips and finally said, “Don’t burn anymore candles all night. We make those ourselves.”

Resentfully, Achilles stalked from the cell and spent the evening sulking in the kitchen, where Lucien tried to cheer him with food. 

That night, he lay in bed—in the dark—and scowled until he realized that being angry with Philip was far, far better than missing Hector. Then, with a reluctant smile, he burrowed his face into the pillows and slept.


	14. Communications

In the morning, Achilles awoke with renewed dedication to his beloved. As Hector labored over his copying, his angel began making plans. He knew from the past that dragging Hector away from a burning anything was not an experience he wished to repeat, for both of their sakes. Therefore, little as he cared about the fates of anyone or anything other than Hector, he had best devise a plan for evacuating monks who would flatly refuse to evacuate if he knew anything about them.

They wouldn’t evacuate without the scrolls, and the attacking Romans would be attacking in part to get at those scrolls, therefore the scrolls had to be evacuated first. And despite Achilles’ order to consult, it seemed that consulting was difficult with monks who had taken a Vow of Silence, for it was the next day, and they were all in their cells, in solitude, as if no danger loomed.

If he wanted the scrolls gathered, sorted, and hidden, he’d apparently have to do it himself. He paused for a moment at the thought that he, mighty Achilles, had descended to concerning himself with rolls of what he considered kindling. Love makes you a slave, he told himself wryly, once again. Well, he thought, standing alone in the deserted sanctuary, he could deal with the scrolls, or he could learn to live without Hector.

First, another foray into the palace and the market place seemed in order. Achilles wound his hair up under his new cap, armed himself, and dressed himself out as Not the Angel of the Valentians. When he left the abbey, he took the road toward the palace and noted the number of Roman soldiers. More every day. 

Next, he explored the quarter for other temples and abbeys. He found a multitude of them, many devoted to gods he recognized—which was comforting—but many to gods he did not. None other to Jesu, which was ominous, because it suggested that if Ca’calla wanted to go after that particular god, the nearest temple was Hector’s. 

At length, Achilles found a temple of Apollo and in a welter of relief at something familiar, sought out a priest. But of course, they did not speak one another’s language.

What Achilles wanted was a map. If he had to remove his Hector from this area, it would be nice to know how far he was from familiar territory, where people spoke a language he knew. Best of all would be to get back to his mother’s island with his beloved firmly in custody, never to leave again. This _Hector needs a purpose_ business was fraying his nerves a bit, especially if his purpose was so banal.

All he needed, he felt, was the Syriac word for _map._

Summoning the priest with a few gold pebbles as “offerings” (priests never, ever turned down offerings) Achilles began the laborious process of communicating that he needed a map. 

“Map. Map?”

The priest was attentive, but clearly had no idea what Achilles was gesturing about.

He drew the outlines of a territory in the air and then pointed to a random spot in it.

The priest clapped at the spot as if killing a bug and looked expectantly to see if that was what the strange fellow was trying to communicate.

Achilles stared at him with draining patience. Then he looked out of the temple and saw, in the distance, the palace. Ah.

He squatted and drew the dome of the palace in the dust with his finger, and pointed to the palace.

The priest nodded in agreement. At this point, two other priests had come over to observe the eccentric fellow.

Achilles drew a line next to the palace to signify the road. They nodded agreement. _Yes. Road._

He drew the columns at their entrance down the road and pointed at their columns. They all agreed that this was a fair representation of their columns.

Finally he drew a large square around the diagram and pretended to lift the entire thing out of the dirt and peruse it, pointing from one place to another as if searching.

“Ahhhh!!” Finally the priest understood, and took him back to his very own chambers, and poured him a chalice of wine, and drew out his personal map collection for them to peruse together.

When Achilles finally obtained maps enough to see where he was in relation to home, he was staggered. Home waters were so far to the west, over so much land, so much of which looked to be desert, that Achilles was daunted.

He accepted the chalice of wine and drank with the priest, giving another “offering” in thanks.

The priest tapped the map questioningly, seeing the young man’s distress.

Achilles touched the island of Greece at the edge of the largest map and pointed to himself.

The priest let his breath out in a woosh of sympathy, drawing his hands far from each other. _Yes, very far. Have another drink._

It was some hours before Achilles returned to the temple. After leaving the priest of Apollo, he’d wandered the quarter at some length, feeling the need for exercise and fresh air after having been cooped up in the temple for days. How could his Hector stand it?

Finally, as the afternoon lengthened, he went to the market place in search of Maribus. He found him playing some game with dice with the other street lads. 

“Ah! Angel!” Maribus made an important gesture to the others, and excused himself from the game with an air of having an important business meeting to attend to. 

Achilles obligingly accompanied him to a doorway and slipped him another gold pebble.

“Ca’calla send more soldiers. Not good for Jesu people. Better move,” was the young man’s opinion.

“How far north is still the land of Ca’calla?”

“Very far.”

“West?”

“To the far water, all Ca’calla.”

Achilles was taken aback. How much time had passed, he wondered. It was the first time this question had occurred to him. He had wondered several times where he was, but it had not occurred to him to wonder when.

“To the south?”

“All the way. Follow river to sea, still, all Ca’calla.”

Achilles felt the same sort of heartsick confusion his Hector must have routinely felt when dosed with lethe, and wondering, _How long have I been here?_

“Before Ca’calla, who was king?” he tried.

Maribus shrugged, but then his eyes brightened. “Come,” he said, and led Achilles down a side street to an old man sitting on a porch stoop. After a bit of local banter, the young man put the question to his elder.

“Septimius.” The old man told him, as if everyone knew that.

“And before that?” Achilles asked Maribus, who put the question.

“Marcus Aurelius,” the old man replied with certainty, and then said something, which the boy translated as “several in short time, not important. Marcus important.”

“And before him?” Achilles asked in dread, hoping to soon come to a name he’d at least heard of. But they continued to the edges of the old man’s memory, which was impressive indeed, and still had come to no king Achilles had ever heard of. 

Dizzy, he paid the old man and the boy, and made his way back to his temple. Roman soldiers a-plenty passed him, and though they seemed not to cast evil glances, Achilles felt certain that he needed to extricate himself and his beloved soon, and get out of the center of this hot and dusty land.

Re-entering the cool of the temple was a relief, and he peeked in on Hector without disturbing him, just needing to see him still safely scratching away at those wretched scrolls, before retreating to Bardaisan’s rooms and communicating to two of the monks that he needed vast quantities of hot water for bathing.

It was some hours before his equilibrium was restored enough for him to bend his thoughts toward the immediate problem of removing the scrolls, so that the monks could be persuaded to remove themselves, before the Romans came with swords to remove their livers.

Achilles went to Julius first, for he was the other scribe, and was in his cell, hunched much as Hector was, laboriously copying a scroll by candlelight. He was clearly startled when the angel invaded his cell.

“How many scrolls are there?” Achilles asked in Latin.

Julius stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“How. Many. Those!?” He pointed.

Julius lifted one scroll questioningly.

“Yes! How many?”

Julius stared at him again.

Achilles resisted the urge to heave a sigh. This was the priest of Apollo all over again. Now he knew why Hector always inhaled and then just deflated quietly. He pointed at each of the five scrolls stacked on Julius’s desk and said, in Latin, “One-two-three-four-five.”

Julius watched attentively.

Achilles held up five fingers and pointed at the scrolls.

Julius smiled and nodded encouragingly, as if to say, _Very good counting! You must be one of those counting angels!_

Achilles clenched his fists, blue eyes burning in frustration. It was no enjoyable thing to be a Greek warrior trying to communicate with a Syriac Christian who couldn’t understand Latin and refused to speak anyway. Behind him, he heard the faintest of chuckles, and turned to see his Hector in the doorway. 

Smothering his smile, the monk queried Julius in their own language, and received an answer.

“Forty-five, more or less,” Hector then told Achilles.

Relieved and pleased to see his beloved cooperating, Achilles said, “Can’t we just roll them all together?”

Hector lost his smile and looked affronted. “No, they don’t all go together.”

Julius was looking between them in confusion, so began the process of Hector relaying Achilles’ remarks to Julius. The sound of voices in the abbey was unusual enough to bring Lucien and two other monks to their door to stand like cows listening to music. 

“Yes, they are all the same size, look,” Achilles snatched up two scrolls, rolled one more tightly, and stuffed it inside the other. “Look. Easier to carry and hide!”

Both Hector and Julius winced condemningly. Julius explained something to Hector, who turned to Achilles, and informed him importantly that scrolls about the movements and meanings of the constellations should not be stored with those about the son of Yahova, and certainly neither went with the storehouse of knowledge concerning the beliefs of the cultures to the far East.

Achilles glowered and hoped Bardaisan was eaten alive by rats.

“Tomorrow,” he told his monks firmly, “all of the scrolls come back to the sanctuary. We sort them and roll them together. You will take the Jesu scrolls,” he said to Hector, “the others will pick whatever they prefer, and we will take them to safe places.”

The monks looked at each other as if uncertain as to whether they should follow the angel’s directions. Bardaisan was not here. What would Bardaisan direct?

“Or I burn them!” Achilles finally shouted, grabbing a candle and holding it with an intent that transcended language. “You get them out of here and hide them or I burn them!”

The monks shrank back from him in horror, except of course Hector, who followed him angrily as he stomped from Julius’s cell and strode through the abbey to his suite. Unthinking of his situation, Philip followed him right into his rooms.

“You cannot direct us to remove these scrolls, we brought them here exactly to protect them—“

Achilles turned to see his beloved with his cowl shoved back, his curls wild, and his feet planted firmly apart. Hector brandished his finger at his angel, head thrust forward angrily, his eyes burning black and bright, and all Achilles’ irritation drained away. He shut the door behind his monk, locked it with Bardaisan’s key and went to lay it on the table by the bed. Then turned to his Hector and smiled. 

“Welcome back,” he purred, the faintest hint of a warm smile in his eyes.


	15. How Philip is Different from Hector

Philip stood with his back to the door.

“No.” He said ardently, shaking his head and staring at the bed as if it were in flames.

“All I want is to tend to your back,” Achilles promised. “I will do nothing more.” He was rather surprised at himself. In the past, he’d grappled Hector into submission without a qualm. But the Prince of Troy had seemed somehow more resilient in spirit than this defensive, somber monk. Perhaps because he had a family close at hand to retreat to.

“Where is your family?” He asked suddenly.

Philip turned his face away stubbornly. This was either idle chatter the sort of which silence was meant to dispense with, or it was a ploy to reduce his resistance. Either way—

“Are they dead?” Achilles ventured, truly curious.

Silence stretched, and his beloved’s face was closed. Some pain was there, the warrior was certain of it. Much as he’d disliked Priam’s cavalier attitude toward Hector’s safety, it seemed as though Philip had known even less love and protection than Hector had.

And Achilles supposed that made him more vulnerable yet, and so he could undoubtedly take his lover and simply force him into compliance until he learned to love it again, but something held him back. He worried that somehow what had conquered Hector might break Philip. Or destroy any further willingness to cooperate, which could be deadly if the situation came to a head.

Removing Hector from the deserted beach of Troy during Agamemnon’s attack had been a matter of carrying him to a nearby boat and dropping him in it. Removing Philip from Edessa… against his will? Much more difficult.

He gave a soft sigh of defeat. “I solemnly vow, I will force nothing on you,” he said patiently. “I will touch nothing but your back. Let me work on that mass of scars. It’s distressing to me. This is why I am here, for you, to care for you.” He was having difficulty expressing the thought. 

His monk stayed firmly against the door for a moment more. Achilles waited hopefully. Finally, brows knitting in worry, lips tight, eyes dark and large with anxiety, his beloved moved reluctantly into the room and with fumbling fingers loosened his heavy outer robes and let them fall.

Not wanting to stare at the unveiling too intensely, Achilles turned and retrieved his clay pot with the soothing ointment. It was the one he’d least expected to have to use.

When he turned back, his Hector was sliding gingerly into the bed, clutching his white robe around his hips, eyes warily on him. He smiled slightly at the sight, but then the other man lay face down on the pillows and the candlelight fell on his scarred back. 

Achilles’ smile faded and he shook his head. Never had he seen someone willingly mutilate themselves to this level. He had seen warriors use needles and dye to create patterns on their skin, but this—

He straddled Hector’s hips and immediately his beloved startled and twisted in a panic, hands pushing himself up again.

“Shh, I have promised. I have promised. I have promised,” he said, until his words sank in and the monk sank tensely back down. 

Achilles dipped his fingers in the oil, rubbed it into both hands, and began smoothing with utmost gentleness, moving very slowly, into the damaged back.

Philip lay with his face buried half under the pillow and his fingers clutching at the sheets. The feeling of his angel’s heat and weight upon his hips was shocking and intimate, and his body responded with shameful immediacy. Achilles was wearing only a tunic, and his naked thighs were fairly burning Philip’s sides. He was thankful to be face down, and able to hide the stiff, throbbing evidence. 

Then the angel put his hands on Philip’s torn back, and feeling of relief as the oil smoothed and melted away the itching from the healing scars was profound. He could feel the fingers slowly finding each wound and caressing it tenderly and assiduously. But how overwhelming was the sensation of loving hands! He’d never felt them, not in his life, not that he could remember. It set up a clamor in his head like golden bells all ringing too loudly.

Achilles rubbed one of the older scars. _Heal, soften, recede,_ he told it with his mind, and worked the skin gently, feeling the scar tissue soften gradually and reabsorb. When he looked at it, the appearance was markedly improved. He was certain that if he worked on his beloved’s back each night, he could eventually restore it. 

Pleased, he applied more oil, and now spread his hands and caressed, pouring all of his healing ministrations onto the quivering form beneath him. This was happiness, he felt, petting his adoration into his prince. He watched the scars fade slightly, and then felt his Hector’s muscles bunch as if in silent resistance. His love was pressing his face into the sheets as if he was trying to dig with his forehead.

“Am I hurting you?” He asked, puzzled.

“I cannot. I cannot. I cannot—“ his Hector muttered, teeth clenched.

Achilles lifted off of his trembling love and settled next to him, watching him. His Hector seemed to be in crisis, and put his hands to his own head as if trying to keep it from bursting. Finally, he calmed, and turned to look pleadingly at the warrior angel.

“Please, I must leave. I must.” His eyes were huge, and his lips were a thin line.

“Very well,” Achilles said, determined to be patient. He moved up in the bed to sit with his back against the headboard, reached for the key and then offered it to his beloved.

Philip took the key and knelt in the bed, gathering his robes around him, eyes averted and shamed. Then he looked up to see Achilles sitting, one strong golden leg pulled up, his hand cupped casually over his own erection, his fingers sliding absently over the soft cloth of his tunic, caressing himself lightly.

“Do you have dreams about me?” The angel asked, his full lips curving into a wistful smile.

Philip stared at him in wordless anguish.

“I would give nearly anything,” Achilles admitted quietly, “for just one kiss.”

For a long moment they regarded one another. Finally, the monk’s gaze slipped down to those full lips and his throat moved as he swallowed. He leaned over and placed his lips carefully on that warm, sensuous mouth, and Achilles sat very still, lest he frighten off his beloved. His love drew back and regarded him in wonder.

_One more kiss, just one,_ Philip told himself, crawling closer and putting one hand in the soft blond hair. Then his fist clenched convulsively on that hair and in a sudden fit of mindless hunger, his other arm wrapped around the smooth warmth of his angel and he was kissing him and clutching him without restraint. Their lips parted and the kiss was deep and ardent, and the monk found that he wanted to swallow it. The sensation was like a thunderbolt.

The next moment, Philip hurled himself away and fell back on the bed as if in shock.

Achilles, eyes dark and promises abandoned, lunged forward and fell on him like an animal, intending to pin his arms to the bed and devour him, but his monk wrapped both arms around him tightly, and yanked him close with an eagerness that went through him like a vibration through an iron bell. Soon they were straining at each other with violent ardor, fists in one another’s hair, legs twining like snakes.

Achilles was dazzled at this hot eagerness. Hector had always been responsive, but never had he evinced the starving, pent-up wildness that writhed beneath him now. Head thrown back, his Hector pushed up against him desperately, arms pulling him tighter. He pulled at what little clothing Achilles wore, and he stripped it off obligingly. 

They ground against one another, clutching and rocking, until both convulsed and shuddered in their mutual embrace. 

They lay gasping, faces buried in each other’s hair. Achilles murmured words of love in Greek, kissing his beloved’s neck again and again. Finally, their breathing slowed, and Philip pushed weakly at him as if to move him off. Achilles dismounted and rolled over. As soon as Philip was able, he lunged out of the bed, gathered up his robes, and left without a word. 

Achilles stared after him, still breathing heavily.


	16. How Philip is the same as Hector

In the morning, Achilles found to his pleasure that Lucien and Julius, at least, had finally taken his warning seriously, and they and one other monk were sorting scrolls in the sanctuary. From what the warrior could see, the piles could be essentially categorized as maps, stars, or crosses. 

Achilles watched the process while munching on bread and cheese, and glanced over at Hector’s closed door. He would prefer to not pursue too relentlessly, but if his beloved didn’t appear soon, Achilles would go in search. He’d promised not to hurt himself again, but it made him nervous when his monk was not in sight.

Just as the warrior was thinking of reasons to investigate, the door to Hector’s cell opened, and to his surprise, his beloved came forward dressed not as a monk, but as a mere citizen. His white robe was covered by the gray jacket, and a long silk stole of varying patterns of blue lay over that. He wore a matching cap of similarly elegant material. Over his shoulder was the heavily embroidered strap of a leather pouch that was evidently of some worth and craftsmanship, and it appeared full. Around his neck was a silver chain, and something was hanging from it, but it was hidden in the folds of his robe. On closer look, it wasn’t his simple cotton under robe he was wearing. It was thicker, smoother, a more pure white.

Achilles admired him, realizing from his apparel that his Hector was still of aristocratic lineage. His faith may have told him to embrace poverty and simplicity, but his family was obviously not of desperate means. He even had a silver ring on his finger with a deep blue stone. 

His appearance was so startling, it took the warrior a moment to see the look in his eyes. It was one of dread. It occurred to Achilles now that his beloved was not dressed this way merely to run errands in the street without attracting attention. 

Achilles initial reaction was joyful, but the look in his Hector’s eyes suggested that he was in misery over something. And once again, he was avoiding looking at his angel. Achilles settled back against the table and took another bite of bread. One issue at a time, he decided.

The other monks did not look surprised at Philip’s appearance. He had apparently apprised them before Achilles had awakened. 

The warrior watched as the cross scrolls were unrolled, stacked, and rolled up together as he had suggested. They were tied with a bit of string, and then Julius slid them into a long cloth bag with drawstring handles, and passed it reverently to Philip. The two put their heads together and spoke very quietly. Then Philip made silent farewells to the others. Finally, still without a glance at Achilles, he turned and headed for the door.

“AYY!!” Achilles yelled into the echoing silence of the sanctuary, causing most of the monks to leap a bit. He spread his hands in amazement. What was this??

His Hector gave him a stony look and exited through the doors. 

Achilles threw the bread down on the table and darted back to his rooms. He snatched up his oils, threw them into his pouch, grabbed his few belongings, strapped on his sword, and ran back through the abbey, past the monks, through the doors, and out into the morning. His Hector was already out of sight.

Panic.

Achilles ran down the street toward the palace but saw no Hector. He ran back up the other way and in the distance, saw the tall gray and blue figure walking calmly under the trees, his gait even and steady, the scrolls under his arm. Running, Achilles caught up with him.

“What was that?!” He demanded.

His Hector—head up, eyes sternly ahead—took no notice of him. Achilles stepped in front of him, and Hector went around him, still ignoring him. Staring after his beloved, Achilles had a very, very, very strong desire to snatch those scrolls out of his hands and shred them, before grabbing his beloved and taking him… where, though?

Achilles caught up with him again, strode along beside him, and in Greek, finally unloaded everything he was thinking. He knew his beloved couldn’t understand him, but it was more than he could bear to keep silent any longer.

“I never should have let you off the island! I should have kept you, _kept you,_ as my prisoner for all eternity. I should have tied you to the bed! I should have whipped you with a belt every day just for exercise! I should do that now! I have followed you, I have served you, I— I— serving you, you, you mortal, you-you brainless child! You are a brainless child! I could break you with my bare hands, with these hands, you see this hands? I could break you, but I don’t, I serve you, I protect you, I adore you, and you, you… You make yourself a tool for idiots, you obey everyone except me, me, the one creature who loves you! And I don’t even know why because you are foolish, mindless, lost, brainless IDIOT!!”

Hector glanced at him from the corner of his eye and kept walking. But by the change of his expression, the outpouring of emotion was apparently a surprise to him. Even if he couldn’t understand what was being said, the tones of frustration and passion were unmistakable.

“… Hector… Hector… ARGH… Hector…” Achilles was muttering now, having worked himself up into a fine lather.

The road was not highly traveled in this direction, which was fortunate, for the few passers by seemed a bit caught up in the sight of a handsome, well-dressed gentleman being harangued in a foreign language by a blond warrior who looked as if he had both the capacity and the inclination to rip branches off of trees.

Achilles finally subsided into brooding silence and committed himself to stomping along next to his beloved until the end of time.

They walked for a while. The walls and compounds around them gradually gave way to fields, and the trees along the road were fewer. The sky was brilliant blue, and the air was warm.

At length, the fields were interrupted by an orchard, and a particularly large shade tree well off the dusty road seemed to appeal to Hector. He stepped off the road and went to rest beneath it. Achilles flopped down grumpily at his side and took a swig of water from his wineskin. Hector held out his hand for it and Achilles gave him a look. 

“Oh, what’s that? You want something?” He raised his eyebrows at Hector.

“Please.” Hector said calmly.

“I should dump it over your head,” Achilles muttered in Greek, and handed it to him.

His beloved drank and handed it back, and then took a deep breath. “Who was Hector?”

Achilles looked into the dark, serious eyes, let his gaze wander over the neatly trimmed whiskers around the defined jaw. He opened his mouth to say, “He was my prince. He was my king,” and suddenly his throat shut. He tried to just mouth the words, and without warning, tears welled up in his eyes, to his own utter astonishment, and ran down his cheeks. He scowled at himself, and swallowed several times, trying to bring it under control. Then he started sobbing in the coughing, gasping, awkward way he had. Finally he felt his face collapse, and he put his hand up to hide it and hacked out his anguish as the tears ran unchecked.

Philip watched in shock that gradually turned to silent pity. _Poor, half-mad angel, _he thought. He was clearly in grief over some lost love, and thinking that he, a random monk, unwanted by his own father, could be that love. 

Finally, he placed a tentative hand on Kilis’ back, and then around his shoulders to embrace him. 

“I see,” he said quietly. “I see.”

Achilles had only broken down in grief once before in his life, and it was over Hector. Now it came again, with the anguish at the fear that the Hector of Troy with whom he shared years of memories was simply gone. 

At his side sat the raw material of Hector, true, but they were not aligned. They did not share the same language, the same culture, the same memories… there was nothing but the strange magnetism that had first pulled Achilles toward the courage and decency and beauty of the prince, and now his acknowledged adoration and worship of that soul in any incarnation in which he found it. But that soul did not know him, did not remember him… it rolled like a perfect gem from place to place and little or nothing made an impression on it.

Now he curled up and sobbed as if Hector had died yesterday. Philip pulled him close and stroked the long blond hair. 

“I am sorry,” he whispered, although he wasn’t exactly sure what he was apologizing for. Perhaps he was sorry not to be that Hector. 

Eventually, Achilles drained himself and lay blank-eyed, his head on Philip’s lap, staring at the road. He was aware of the hand that caressed his hair, and even that was so utterly Hector. It was as if he had overdosed his Hector with lethe and now he could never remember again. He wondered if this were his punishment for those many times he had done exactly that.

Suddenly his eyes widened and he rolled over on his back and stared up at Philip. His mother had warned him once, “I don’t know what happens to the thread you weave and unravel so many times.” Perhaps his love would have recognized him if he had not drugged him and toyed with him in those early days. 

And perhaps this punishment was not forever. If this was the punishment of any decent god, wouldn’t it be temporary, to allow him the chance to learn from it and try again?

He lay thinking of his, as his Philip stared up the road, patiently waiting until they could begin walking again. _Such patience,_ he thought, focusing now on his beloved. _A good man. Am I a good man? No. But I want to be. For him._

A resolution was forming in his head now, and he couldn’t exactly articulate it, but it had to do with hope, and with repentance, and with improvement, and with love. He couldn’t quite put it together, but it refreshed him somehow, and took the edge from his despair.

He wiped his face and sat up. This was still his Hector. He was merely soaked in lethe, and one day… one day it might wear off again. But this was his punishment, and he would learn from it.

Philip looked at him in quiet sympathy. But Achilles was over the worst of it now.

“Where are we going?” He asked huskily.

“My father’s house. I believe he will hide the scrolls for me,” Philip said, looking down protectively at his scrolls.

“Are you going to remain there?”

Philip looked away. “No…. no, he will want me to return to the abbey.”

Achilles was puzzled. Why would a father want his eldest son, and such a good son, away from him? Before he could ask, the sound of hooves brought their attention to the road, and they turned to see three Roman soldiers gallop by, coming from the direction they were headed. The soldiers were moving fast and did not take particular notice of them, but their presence reminded Achilles of the less-than-ideal situation his monk was in. He wondered if he would have to fight. He had a fine sword and a good knife, but no shield.

It occurred to him only then that his Hector was unarmed. He stood to indicate that he was ready to move on.

“We must get you a sword,” he commented, watching the dust from the soldiers settling, and noting that the road was empty again.

Philip got to his feet and brushed his robes clean. “I don’t know how to fight,” he said calmly.

Achilles nearly fell over. His Hector had become almost as accomplished as himself.

“What??”

Philip looked up at him. “My father preferred that I be a scholar. He decided early in my life what my role was.”

Achilles merely gaped at him.

Philip walked past him toward the road. “My brother can fight,” he added, and Achilles was hit with a swirl of remembrance and sudden realization.

Yes, the patterns were there. The father who did not value his son, the younger brother who was indulged, the danger from a foreign king, the culture his prince was trying—alone—to protect… and Achilles, there to watch over him.

“Can he,” he asked absently, his mind trying to grasp why any man would prefer a younger son over a man like his Hector.

“His mother insisted. She’s from a very prominent family.” Philip added with only a trace of bitterness.

Ah. Not the same mother. Some of the picture became clear to Achilles.

“Alright,” he said grimly. He followed his Hector back onto the road and they walked in silence that was now companionable. But Achilles had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what kind of reception awaited his beloved.


	17. Fathers and Soldiers

The estate was a fine one, Achilles noted as they approached the compound of Philip’s father. It was set well back from the road. The drive was lined with olive trees. But at the door, a servant bade them wait instead of showing them in, even though it was evident that they recognized Philip.

In a moment, the patriarch appeared, and Achilles expected another Priam, but no, not exactly. He was tall, like his son, and thin, and patrician, but not at all identical. It was interesting to see how the constellation that was Hector did not require the constellation of his parents to reproduce him. The patterns operated to their own accord, clearly.

Achilles could not understand the details of their conversation, as it was entirely in Syriac, but the gist of it was evident.

The proud old patriarch was appalled that his son should come here with these dangerous scrolls and imperil the family. His agitated pointing down the road suggested to Achilles that the three Roman soldiers had just paid a visit, perhaps looking for sympathizers to the now-banned sect championed by the deposed Abgar. 

Philip gestured to the scrolls and seemed to offer them, but the old man was having none of it. Not the scrolls, and not the son, no, no, no. 

The monk stared up at his father for a moment, having not expected that even the scrolls would find no safe haven. His father’s devotion to the religion evidently did not extend to any action that would endanger his wife and sons. He had given money and his oldest, unwanted son to the support of the king’s religion. That was quite enough, and Philip need to go now, right now, before he was seen.

Philip said something, and it was in a reasonable voice, but his father took offense and slapped him hard across the face.

Achilles, who had stood silently by during this drama, felt the blood come up to his head and his eyes fastened on the old tyrant with a promising look.

Philip, seeming stunned, turned away, head down, his cherished scrolls in his hands, and began the long walk down the drive back to the road.

Achilles stood staring at the father, thinking, _I want to be a better man…_ Then he lashed out without warning and punched the old tyrant right in the nose. He watched with satisfaction as the man’s hands flew up to cover his bloodied face, and his watering eyes blinked frantically as he bent over, mouth open, staggering backward in surprised pain.

_…starting now,_ Achilles decided, and walked away to follow Philip, who thankfully had not looked back to see that little flash of temper. Behind him, Achilles took his wineskin and poured some water on his hand to wash the blood off, and then shook it clean.

When they reached the road again, Philip sighed and turned back toward town.

“Perhaps one of the other monks has family who will hide them,” he commented softly, and made no further reference to his father, or his reddened cheek. But his silence now was filled with sudden reflection. His father had given him to Bardaisan, and Bardaisan had given him to the angel. The angel seemed the only one who truly wanted him.

They walked apace for a while, and Achilles’ was torn between allowing his monk to absorb the reality of his situation, to see the fruits of trying to please these uncaring, neglectful, self-absorbed father figures, and trying to find a topic that would distract his beloved from the pain of these realizations.

The sun reached its zenith and soon they could see the distant rooftops ahead among the trees, and knew they were nearing the outskirts of the city again.

“So you’ve never used a sword,” he finally said.

“No.”

“Want to hold my sword?” Achilles asked archly. 

His Hector looked at him.

“I mean, this one,” the blond held it out with a smile. “Wait, see this pointed end? We don’t hold this end. We hold the other end,” he said in a careful tone.

His beloved looked away, fighting a smile. “Oh, I see now.”

“Because this end is sharp,” Achilles continued, as if speaking to a small child.

“It does look sharp.” Philip said with patient humor.

“Here, let me hold the scrolls,” Achilles turned businesslike and held out his hand.

Philip hesitated.

“I promise not to throw them into _the first river I see,”_ Achilles said edgily. 

The monk gave him a look. “That’s very specific.”

Achilles gave his fingers a beckoning wiggle, and Philip carefully placed the roll into his hand. Then he took the sword—by the handle, of course—and held it experimentally.

“It’s heavy,” he commented.

“You’ve never held one at all?” Achilles was beyond horror.

“No.” 

“Alright, well, this one is double-edged, so you can swing in either direction—be careful! Look, there’s the orchard. See if you can kill that branch. No, no, don’t pull back so far, it’s not an axe. Bring your arm up to here… now… with your wrist… like this, see… yes, now when you swing, aim for that knot and use the muscles under here and here—“

Philip swung and they both stared. 

“That was good,” Achilles finally said. “You hit that knot exactly.” This was his Hector, no doubt about it, he thought. Hector is in there.

“…I think I’ll just take this back now,” Achilles said, and Philip surrendered the sword to him with a full smile, that sweet wide one that the warrior had not seen in so long. Achilles sheathed the sword and handed back the scrolls. They gazed at each other for a moment, and Achilles felt his heart lifting.

Then his Hector’s eyes were directed past him, and the smile faded. His eyes grew large, and he was very still, suddenly. His warrior felt the prickle on his skin of both foreboding and distant memory.

Achilles turned to see the thick column of gray smoke drifting lazily up into the afternoon sky. He let his eyes follow the column down beyond the trees, between the rooftops of the homes they’d passed on their way out of town. In the distance he could see the dome of the palace, but the smoke was closer than that. It seemed almost certain that it was rising from the exact location of the abbey. 

Chills ran over him. These patterns were inexorable, he thought in amazement. 

Remembering the dark morning on the beach of Troy, he grabbed Philip immediately, at the exact moment the monk lunged forward. 

“No, no,” He said, “Wait…” Just as he had done before, only this time, he did not release his prize. “Come,” he dragged his struggling prince further off of the road and into the orchard. 

“Let go!! We must get back!!”

“There is nothing we can do. There is nothing we can do,” Achilles repeated.

His Hector was staring past him, and Achilles was certain that if released, he would rush to the rescue of his brethren and the remaining work, and die with his Order just as Hector would have died with Troy. Achilles pushed his monk against a tree, flattened himself against his beloved, and simply pinned him there until he finally stopped fighting. 

Eventually, Philip sagged and let his head come to rest on Achilles’ shoulder, and the warrior’s pinioning arms went from capture to embrace. He held his monk tightly and rocked him slightly.

“We have to see,” Philip whispered.

“We will, we will. Just wait until dark.”

“No, now, we must go now!”

“But you have many of Bardaisan’s scrolls with you, right now. Would you take them to the fire?” Achilles was desperate to calm his beloved. 

Philip dropped his head back on his angel’s shoulder, and felt the comforting hands on his back and hair. 

“Lucien left before I did,” he whispered. “He was taking some of the scrolls to his family home. Maybe he’s home. Maybe he’s safe.”

“Of course he is,” Achilles risked a glance back at the smoke. Men on horseback were galloping past now, out of town, several of them. He could hear shouts in the distance. It was all so eerily reminiscent. If only he had a boat to put his beloved in, and a sea to row him away on! Damn this landlocked place….

“Maybe some of the others escaped out the back.”

“I’m sure they did,” Achilles whispered, still squeezing his beloved. “But listen, nothing that has happened is your fault. You’ve done the best you could. You’ve done everything that was asked of you. There’s nothing more that you can do.”

He could feel his monk’s tears on his own neck and held on tightly. He wondered if this was how it would always go, and what he could do about it.


	18. Caravan

The caravan leader watched as his party broke from their ragged formation to make camp for the evening, dismounting stiffly from their wagons. Their voices carried in the twilight air as they stretched and secured the colorful woven rugs over their sturdy frames. The sky turned pink as the sun lowered behind the rim. The more experienced travelers had already set up half-burned, salvaged logs from last night’s fires, and set them burning anew. Those who didn’t have tents stowed their sleeping bundles under the wagons and rolled them out. The horses tossed their heads, eager to be unstrapped from their harnesses. 

“Fill your water bags,” the leader reminded his followers, and the hum of voices rose around him as the merchants made ready to settle in and cook their dinners. It was a sizable caravan, nearing forty. The larger the better, as raiders sometimes patrolled this lonely stretch between Edessa and Apamea.

As the party created their small, overnight village, the leader turned to see two horses approaching across the barren stretch. He mounted his own horse and galloped to meet them: if they were undesirables, he’d chase them off before they got near his party.

Drawing near, he saw two men of obvious worth, in clothing well-made but dusty. A bit travel-worn, but still, two rather fine looking young gentlemen. He wondered what could bring such a pair out into the open road.

The blond cantered near him and raised his hand politely, and then called out a question in a language the caravan leader did not understand. He shook his head and waited. The blond tried another language to no avail. Finally, in Latin, he said, “May we accompany you to Apamea?”

“Ah. What is your business?” He returned.

“Visiting family, no more.”

The caravan leader thought it over. They looked respectable enough. “We’ve been following your trail since morning, but this area looks a bit arduous,” the fellow added with a winning smile.

“Do sometimes get raiders,” the leader warned.

“I can fight with you,” the blond promised. His arms looked muscular and his seat on the horse was confident.

His companion, a handsome, sad-eyed, dark-haired fellow with a close beard, remained quiet.

“Can he fight?” The caravan leader asked.

The blond looked over at his friend and smiled slightly. “He knows which end of the sword to grasp.”

The caravan leader nodded. “Fall in and find a campsite, then. Got supplies, but you’ll have to pay for them.”

The blond grinned. “I can pay,” he said.

The caravan leader nodded again, and turned his horse back to the camp. They were two days from Apamea. A good night’s sleep here, another on the other side of the foothills, and by evening of the following day they’d see the walls of the city, and the Orontes river.

The two men set up a small tent with heavy, woven rugs that looked fairly new, obviously bought for this journey. Then the one with the long, blond hair approached one of the larger campfires with a wooden bowl and a bit of gold, and asked to buy some dinner in oddly archaic Latin.

“Don’t have any fish left, but dried beef and flatbread will see you through,” one old merchant told him, and in exchange for a golden pebble, loaded the young man up with enough food to feed the both of them. 

He invited the young fellows to sit with him and his fellow travelers, but the dark-haired one was shy, apparently, and stayed back at his own small fire, so the blond declined courteously and retreated to his friend, bringing him the food. He then finished making their campsite while the dark one quietly ate. 

The curious merchants who observed the pair decided that the dark one was a gentleman of some temple or other, and the blond was his manservant.

When night fell, Achilles had rolled out their blankets in the makeshift shelter, and now tapped his beloved on the arm, drawing him from the brooding trance he’d fallen into as he stared into the campfire. The night air was growing cool rather quickly.

“Come to bed,” he said.

As they crawled into the tent, Achilles wrapped himself around his beloved to keep him warm. 

They settled in, and after a moment, in the darkness, Achilles said, “Once we reach the river, I can get us to my mother’s island. Your scrolls will be safe there... Philip.”

There was silence, and then, unexpectedly, the other said, “My name at birth wasn’t Philip.”

Achilles caressed his arm and buried his lips in the back of his lover’s neck, under the dark curls. “No?”

“When you become a monk, you take another name to show you’ve begun a new life.” 

Achilles made a face in the darkness, which fortunately, his beloved could not see.

“Why did you choose the name Philip?”

“I didn’t. Bardaisan chose it. He said it meant Friend of Horses.”

Achilles felt a pang. “You like horses?” 

“Yes. My father had several. I cried when I had to leave them to go to the church.”

Achilles held him tighter. “What is your birth name?”

He turned his head slightly toward Achilles. “The name my father gave me? Daniel. Then Bardaisan named me Philip. Then you named me Hector.”

Achilles sank in chagrin. “What name do you want to be called?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. What was Hector like?”

The warrior smiled, but he felt his eyes sting again, warningly. “He was a prince. He loved horses, training them was one of his gifts. When he fought, he was relentless, yet merciful. He was calm and polite to everyone. He was protective of others, and never knew how valuable he was. Everyone who knew him loved him, but he never understood why.”

Achilles could feel his tears running again, but softly. The grief was there, but he could endure it, he thought. He sniffed, and his love heard it and rolled over to face him.

“I would be your Hector, but I doubt I’m as worthy.”

Achilles gave a cough of laughter that came out with more tears. “Of course you do. Because that is exactly what he would say.”

Hector crawled on top of his angel and settled down with his face in the other man’s neck, and felt the strong arms wrap tight around him. 

“Do we have to live on the island?” He asked, after a moment.

There was a pause as Achilles stared into the dark and thought, _Of course. He’s been locked away alone most of his life, with nothing but silent monks for company. _“Not if you don’t want to,” he admitted quietly. “Do you want to settle in Apamea? We can, if you like.” His fingers found their way into Hector’s curls again, and sadly, he once again resigned himself to watching his beloved live a mortal life. “I’ll buy us a house like your father’s, with olive trees, and a vineyard. You like grapes. And horses. I’ll buy you horses.”

“And teach me to fight with swords?” Hector whispered.

“My specialty,” Achilles whispered back, digging his fingers deeper into those curls.

They lay pressed together, listening to the low murmurs around the campfires outside.

“When we get to Apamea, I want to find a church,” Hector finally said, “and I will leave the scrolls with them. I don’t want to keep them anymore. I don’t want to copy them anymore.”

Achilles smiled in the dark, and squeezed him even tighter. “You don’t have to.”


End file.
